Of Silver and Gold
by RenewedBlade
Summary: Just a collection of vignettes of sorts between Galadriel and Celeborn, as well as other elves in the future . A thousand thanks to Sphinx and Nemis for inspiring this work. EDIT: Chapter Nineteen is up!
1. Back

**A/N:** This is not what I normally would write, both the tense and the writing style. But I honestly couldn't help it, Sphinx's (check her fanfictions out, she's really great) lovely fanfiction was a great source of inspiration; I thought this was very much like hers. Of course, hers is of a much higher standard, but this is just to clear any doubts that you might have after reading it. Many thanks to Sphinx, and hopefully she wouldn't mind! Enjoy and PLEASE DO REVIEW! :D :D

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He stares at her, blue eyes steely, the relief that briefly showed in the orbs now gone – hidden, or gone. The silver and gold, finely wrought ring on his finger glints treacherously in the dim light, and she watches as he lowers his gaze and turns away. There is no apology for his silence in the lowering of his gaze, only weariness and wordless, cold anger. Her thumb twists Nenya's mithril band around her finger, the pain as it chafes the tender skin of the underside of her finger ignored. Her shoulders tighten, her knuckles whitening as she grips the banister, struggling to stay upright. It has been many days since she rested even for a brief second, their binding broken, souls sundered – she has had to learn of him from the messengers, something they had never depended on. The fabric of her cloak rustles weakly, but he does not turn as he might have done mere months ago. Instead, the white robes shimmer slightly as he lowers his head and takes a step to the door – she instantly crumbles, only managing to catch his hand in a pathetic gesture of a desperate plea. "I… Please." She has ever been eloquent, but now there are no words that she can say to him.

He turns, his hand both pulling away and lightly gripping hers, and a long, fine-boned finger traces her cheek, tilting her face up. There is guilt in the eyes, and pain, sorrow – as well as despair. His eyes fall shut, but when they open nothing shows in the blue depths. "My Lady," he says simply, a farewell – but there is no apology, no apology to explain away his unwillingness to remain bound to her. The silver hair cascades down his shoulders as he inclines his head to her, the formality heart-rending.

She shudders. "Celeborn."

He reciprocates the gesture, and sharply whirling on her his eyes flash icily. "Please _don't_," his voice drips with sarcasm, dark blue eyes darkening further to black, the icy fire that flared momentarily gone, and when he speaks again his low baritone is but a hint of the sarcasm just now dripping. There is nothing in his voice, only coolness and beyond that, things she cannot fathom now, because he has closed off his mind to hers. With Nenya she can perhaps hope to learn of his thoughts, but the silver and gold ring on his finger is shining too accusingly now. "I bared my soul to you once, Lady, with the hopes that you might one day do the same. Do not mock me by using the weapons I have surrendered to you on me."

She stares at the floor hard, but when her lips move again they pronounce the same word. "Celeborn."

This time his shoulders stiffen, but he looks down at her, ultramarine eyes piercing into the garland of gold which admirers have countless times praised and desired. There is no appraisal or desire in his eyes. He laughs. "How very like you, Artanis, to not know when to stop." His voice is even and smooth to her, but she does not catch the swift swallow when he pronounces her father-name.

A sharp inhalation passes her lips. "I cannot forego the reason for life, Celeborn." The confession is desperate, and her hand clenches in the folds of her dress.

"And yet you chose _him_, chose power, chose _Nenya_ (he speaks of the ring as a curse, and they will remember in years to come that apart from this time he would never pronounce the name) above me." He speaks swiftly, tone harsh and raw with pain, with tormented knowledge, eyes now boring into hers. "You cannot always have all you want, Galadriel." But she does. She can, and he knows it, because the single moment she called him "Celeborn" he has lost, and the instant he called her "Galadriel", he has contradicted himself.

That night they lie on the bed, and if Celeborn is an inch closer to the edge of the bed than he usually is, they say nothing of it. It is only when she reaches out to him that it is suddenly unveiled. He flinches when her hand touches his bare shoulder, and in a fluid motion sits up. In the dark she hears his voice, too cool to be emotionless. "Shall my enemy touch me too where my wife's hand might?" She swallows, knowing that the gap cannot be breached, and moves to get off the bed. Once she might have told him to move; once she might have breached it even though it could not be breached, because there was nothing that she could not do, but now she simply leaves. He is faster than she, and within a moment she finds herself staring into those blue orbs, and when his lips press demandingly onto hers she realizes that he still tastes the same – ice, steel and morning… It is she who has changed. She tries to turn away, but his lips are insistent, and she could never do anything but surrender to his kiss. Her heart breaks as she feels the hand pinning her right arm to the side trembling fiercely, but he does not release it, does not allow it to touch him, even as his lips trail down the smooth skin of her throat. Suddenly he stops, and the fire that burns through her body smolders. "Alatariel…" his whisper echoes hauntingly in her ears, and his breath is still hovering over her lips, but he turns back, the fissure still there, between them. They know nothing has changed.

In the morning she watches him, as early as always, pressing a kiss onto her forehead before he dresses swiftly, and exits the room without a word towards her. She speaks, however, and know that he can hear it. "It was never my choice," she says quietly.

He pauses on the threshold, then shrugs. "The Galadriel I know would always have a choice." His voice is so faint she can hardly hear it. "Mayhap you are not her. Mayhap you chose what you thought was more important."

She suddenly hates him with a vengeance, because she cannot hate anything else, and explanations mean nothing to him. "Perhaps you fell in love with another," she hisses venomously, "but I for one know that _you_, Celeborn the Wise, cannot deal with petty matters such as a piece of metal!"

He does not turn around, but his shoulders quiver, and laughter escapes his lips – free, untamed as he is. No matter his cultivated mind, his eloquent speech, he is at heart a Sindar. "I see. I am pleased to finally know your thoughts, my Lady. A piece of metal would no doubt matter to one of the Noldor more – as would the power that comes with it."

"And how very like a Sindar to twist my words." She returns sharply. "Shall you now say that I willingly chose Nenya over you? To think that you whom I have shared my deepest thoughts would not know my mind, husband."

He lifts a brow. When he speaks, his voice is but a breeze over the silence, calm, serene. "But you are not she, Lady." He leaves then, but only because he cannot stand having to tear his heart into two.

In the evening he finds a note on his desk. _Celeborn, walk with me in the gardens. _Her calligraphy is an art, and he knows every curve, every stroke of her hand by heart, even though she has never been one to write love letters. Letters have been the only way they could have communicated in the war, however, and every alphabet she writes he studies painstakingly, to know her emotions when once they might have simply spoken in mind. Nenya has forbidden his Lady this ability, however, and there is only one choice: to know thoughts of all, or know none, not even her husband's. He knows what she will choose, and he knows there is nothing to do but to accept it. He has given up many things, but none as bitter as giving up his wife to the work of his rival. But he sees the plea in her calligraphy, and he has never been able to ignore her pleas. He goes, and walks with her.

She is staring into the sky when he comes, and she starts uncharacteristically when she sees him. "I…" She has never been one lost for words, but these times, everything is unpredictable.

He stares, then looks away. "Do not fight to resolve matters, Galadriel."

She sighs, then laughs shakily. "Can I do aught else?" But there is relief in her laughter, and he cannot thank Iluvatar enough for sending the Galadriel he knew back. In a swift movement he has gathered her in his arms, and dropping a kiss onto her shoulder he feels her shudder. For a brief second in eternity she leans back into his chest, trusting him enough to rest at last, and he finds the strong-willed, quick-witted Noldor maiden he fell in love with again.

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Again I must thank Sphinx lots! Just do keep in mind it wasn't my original intention for it to be much like her work, thank you! :D I simply couldn't help it. :P

Do review! I would be so gladdened to know someone's reading it!


	2. Surrender

He knows. He knows he has stayed away for too long, lingered on the shores of Arda Sahta for too many years. He knows, that he would be a fool to hope that she is still waiting for him. He knows not to expect to see her among the crowd welcoming the last of the Firstborn to return to Aman, knows not to be disappointed when there is a crown of the most radiant, living gold missing from the crowd. He knows. And yet his eyes still search among the crowd, his heart still sinks when she is not there. He is vaguely aware of his grandsons placing their hands on his arm, attempting to comfort. But he is poignantly aware of that ache in his heart when he has given up scanning the crowd for her – something that has never failed to happen. _You are a sentimental fool, Celeborn._

But foolish he may be, and sentimental – his façade of inscrutability still remains, and he still smiles when his silver-haired daughter throws herself into his arms; when his son-in-law grasps his upper arm tightly, sharing an understanding smile when he embraces him. He hides his weariness well – weariness from all the wars that ended in the Third Age and he had not had respite from, from all the failed attempts to protect the beautiful, marred earth he has known for all his life, from all the hidden hurts that the world had fallen so quickly from the glory of King Elessar, in the hands of Men, without Elves to retain the slower wisdom of the Firstborn. So he goes, and lives in the Gardens.

He knows Galadriel resides in Tirion, with her father the High King Finarfin. He knows she has received word that he is in Aman. He knows, as well, that she does not wish to see him – but it matters little to him, for he would see her whether she would or no. He arrives, in the halls of Tirion, needing no escort (although Elu Thingol offers him his personal guards as a former Prince) and no introduction (his tales are renowned in Aman), finding her immediately and effortlessly. Speaking to her, since the polite society of Tirion would never allow her to simply dash out of the halls as she would probably have done in Middle Earth, is not much more effort needed, but he suddenly finds his voice lost.

Her beauty is still beyond comparison – the rich, living gold of her hair that surpasses any molten ray of the sun, brilliant yet more enticing, the sharp, silver eyes of the Noldor, the strong yet delicate features. And the light of her fëa still shines brighter than any star, even Anar in its glory dulls in comparison. "Good evening," she says evenly, coldly, with enough weight in her beautiful, deep alto to pass for courtesy, but none of its former gentle teasing that all their greetings have had. "I had not expected to see you here, my Lord."

He regains his ability of speech, and eloquence has never been a matter of troubling prospect to him. "Here?" It is only one single word, but there is more than one meaning to it, and he seems to be disinclined to explain. "Good evening to you as well, Princess Artanis," he adds, the prideful composure, the elegant grace of a cat showing inadvertently as he bends over her hand, lifting it to brush his lips lightly over the knuckles as propriety requires, and feels her start slightly at the unfamiliar name. "Would it be presumptuous of me to believe you have not abandoned your epessë, though, my Lady?"

"It might," she answers cryptically, grey eyes still cold, harder than flint. "It might not. Perhaps there is some business you would like to settle with my father, since your presence here is unexplained?"

He laughs, and ignores the startled, and a little affronted glances of the lords and ladies around them. The laughter is clear, ringing, and with an undeniable as well as unfathomable element of emotion that treads the line between boldness and discourtesy with perfect ease. "Unexplained? Galadriel," he nearly grimaces at his blunder, but disregards it swiftly, "I had always thought you would fight first before escaping! We have not spoken for a minute yet, my Lady, and you are already thinking of getting rid of me." He bends minutely towards her, but they are so close (and she has not realized it until now) that his sweet breath brushes her ear as he speaks, "Escaping would not help at all, Galadriel." She stiffens uncomfortably, but he has already turned with his parting shot, and flashes a smile at her. "I will come again, my Lady." And then he is gone, striding away from the halls with a graceful bow to the High King, who looks on amusedly. At first sight his step reminds of the overconfident brashness of a young stag, but there is more to it when one looks closer. It is not a young stag that he resembles, but a learned, tried and confident King – the grace of a gazelle and the majesty of a lion.

When he again graces the halls of Tirion with his presence, the society takes more notice of him, reminded that their Princess of cherished and enviable beauty has a Prince, and is not the independent, unmarried young elleth they have once known. Most would rather it was otherwise, and those who do not, understand. He does not approach her in the ever ongoing receptions when he arrives in the evening, but speaks to Elrond and Ereinion Gil-galad, reborn from the dead. She catches snatches of their conversation when she unthinkingly draws towards them, and hear them speaking of the horrors of Dagorlad as though it was simply light conversation fit for discussion over dinner.

"You might have attempted zigzagging, instead of charging as you had, and perhaps Aeglos, if not your head, would have been saved," she hears him tease nonchalantly. The others laugh, and she is suddenly confronted with the fact that he is not Celeborn, the stern Lord of Lorien, but Celeborn, the friend and counsellor of the High King Gil-galad, the one who light-heartedly jests of important matters with his High King and the High King's heir, the one who jabs at unhealed wounds to heal them, the one and the only one who is her husband. But she cannot help but feel a little nauseated as she is reminded of the gore of the wars in Middle Earth, and she knows he has noticed it, noticed her swallowing difficultly as though she had just tasted blood, even as the two others laugh, more bitter than amused – even as he laughs along, more weary than bitter, and not in the least amused.

That night when he appears (perhaps she should start pruning the ivy) without announcement in her rooms, she has to bite her tongue to stop herself from telling him to get out and that he is overstepping propriety boundaries, because he is not. He is her husband, and if any is allowed in her room it would be him. She still cannot resist spitting out that he would have more politeness than to invade her room as though it were any battle field, and watches him pale for a moment before smiling carelessly.

"A wife certainly knows where it hurts most, doesn't it?" Then he laughs again, that irritating, rude (although it is not so loud that it can be called rude) laugh that she so despises (but she has missed that sound for five hundred years). "But I would think if you had known to kick the wounded, you might know that I may be sly, cunning and eloquent, but I am never polite."

"Of course," she answers. "One who would speak of Dagorlad and Mordor over dinner could not be polite. And if I wished to I might scream and alert the guards – so that your vile presence might remove itself from my sleeping chambers!"

He grins suddenly, and pulls her close, his lips descending upon hers, demanding, insistent, and with a bitter edge, but yet so irresistible that even though she believes she had grown immune to his kisses through the years he had been away, she finds that it is impossible to pull away, until he gasps at a new contact and it clears her mind enough to push him away and subsequently slap him on the cheek. Hard. She hates him, and she hates herself with vehemence. How could she have almost surrendered to him, just when she has gotten used to his absence? He seems to read her mind, and smiles. "Much time passed in the other shores, when you were not there," he said, and she freezes.

It has always been there, she now realizes. The fear and insecurity – that he would find another to love because they were apart, and she was not there to console him whatever happened, he would find another, another elleth, without her pride and her stubbornness, gentle, obliging… So her voice is dull when she speaks. "So you have had much practice when I was not there? Perhaps you would care enough to introduce me to her, come winter?"

"To _who_?" His voice rises, even if only a little, the baritone sharp. It drops. "There is no one," he murmurs quietly. "There is no one else, there never was, and will never be." Then a short laugh escapes his lips, weary, bitter, but not the laugh that she has heard twice already (and even more times when she was in Middle Earth). "How very like you, wife, to place so very little trust in your husband," he says.

She feels the abrupt surge of anger. "And how very suited for you, husband, to spend insurmountable time wasted while pining for a land that has never loved you the way you loved her. Middle Earth would _never _stay as it was for you, my _Lord_, and you still wasted away, staying away for five hundred years! And now you speak of my lack of trust as if it were unfounded."

Blue eyes flash in anger, even as he berates himself for falling to anger so easily when it is _she_ that provokes him, after so many years. "Then tell me," he hisses, stepping in so that they are mere inches apart, but does not touch her, "tell me that those restless nights of calling your name are foolish! Tell me that those days spent lingering in Lothlorien's gardens, whispering your name, speaking to you as though I were some mad, lovesick fiend are wasted! Tell me that I have come here for no reason at all, because my sole reason would not acknowledge me, and I will be gone from your life eternally!" He stares at her, sapphire orbs still smouldering, but misting – not with tears, but with an emotion… not love, but not hatred, either – as though the fire was gone, and the smoke was all that was left. "I have loved you, Galadriel…" His voice is soft, weary. "I have loved you, I do, and I will. Simply tell me that I am a fool for doing all this, and I will leave."

"It is not only you who have spent five hundred years doing foolish things, Celeborn."

He averts his eyes. "I… realize that my tardiness in returning to you has its consequences, my Lady. You have my love." He turns, his hand on the doorknob, half turning it before a presence on his back suddenly elicits a gasp from him.

"Wait." He barely turns when a hand covers his beating heart. She smiles weakly. "I have been a fool, Celeborn."

He chuckles lightly, the first genuine laugh she has heard from him in a long time. "Lyë melinyë, Altáriel-nin."


	3. Estranged

He shudders, but not in response to the chilly wind that blows over the plains of what was formerly known as Edoras, his Elven nature giving him all the warmth he would need. Perhaps not, he reflects silently, attempting to calm his racing pulse and heightened breathing, eyes scanning the horizon for any he might have unwittingly roused from sleep. From the village comes the barking of dogs, easily discernible to his Elven hearing, and presently a few men approaches, not having seen him yet, sleepy and a little disorientated. He rises, swiftly concealing himself with both the help of the friendly trees at the edge of the forest, and his grey Lothlorien cloak. For a few moments the men pause, but after a few slurred murmurs, they sigh and turn back, whistling lethargically for the hounds to follow them. He walks from behind the oak, silent as only the Firstborn can be, and lean back wearily, staring into the dark night sky. Many of the stars have fallen through the years, and despite the work he and his household has done, the change within Middle-Earth cannot be prevented. Still, there are trees that know him as one of the Fair Ones, who love him and guide him along safe paths, while others have darkened hearts, no longer friendly towards any who walk on two feet. A sigh escapes him, even as his eyes are drawn towards the West, and the Sea beyond. It has been too many days since he has slept without waking in the middle of the night with a raging need for her – for her, who is not there. His desperate cries for her, growing frequent through the years that no longer pass by as though a matter of the sun rising and setting, have many times alarmed his household, and many times has Haldir, the Marchwarden, and his brothers, closer to him in the years they have traveled together, enquired after his health. Even elf-lords with little need of rest cannot go on forever haunted by memories in sleep, they say, but silences when he stares coldly at them. Memories, indeed! If only the ghost of her that haunts his restless nights was a memory!

Haldir and Rumil, his sole companions accompanying him while Orophin settles matters of trade with Cirdan, still lingering on these shores, have gone to scout for news of Elrohir and Elladan. They seem not to dare to leave him alone for long, however, almost as though he might be killed if left unattended. There is a part of him that grows stronger ever, longing for the – but he will not think it, he will not think of her. His work in Middle-Earth is not done yet, and he will not leave until there is nothing more that can be done. The Noldor and their descendants leave, when the evil they have brought into the land of twilight has been diminished, extinguished. But those who call themselves the Eluwaith, those who have known not a land fairer than Middle-Earth, their home and the only one, remain and fight against the devilry of the Men.

Technology, they call it, the use of machinery while hands may do better work, the call for speed when haste is the essence of failure. In this they are more akin to the ways of the Noldor, for they have ever been intrigued by the works of machinery and cold, dead things – all glitter and sparkle. But they have not the wisdom of the Noldor, the quick wit… They only have the ambition. And so his friends, all those that live on evergreen, are killed, hacked down by axes for development. What are trees for, they demand, with sincere curiosity and ignorant eyes that cannot understand, if not to make parchment, for the recording of deeds done by Men? They have forgotten that it is the Tree-Shepherds that come before them, and the glory of the Firstborn that preceded the pathetic fame of Men. They know not that they work to undo the work their ancestors have done, to do the work of the Dark Lord, extinguished with the painful sacrifices of entire generations. They know not that technology, as pretty as metal and jewels can be, are turning them into minions for the Disobedient. But they have refused the long-enduring wisdom of the Firstborn, and Elves have dwindled into pretty fairytales. Those who remember are mocked.

Those of his household are becoming more and more reclusive, preferring the company of the trees than that of the descendants of those they have called friend. They conceal themselves, and render unconscious any unfriendly trespassers, sending them out of Lothlorien, on the other side. It may be called unnecessarily troublesome by others, but they prefer to deal with unconscious, unspeaking ignorance than the loud brawls of those they call civilized men. Cirdan's people have destroyed – hidden, perhaps, a better word – the paths to the Grey Havens, living in blissful disregard of the works of Men. The remaining household of Elrond, however, are more devious. His grandsons have acquired the cunning wit of their grandmother, and trespassers desiring to enter the Valley of Rivendell most often would end up after a month or more right in the same place where they have started, no matter what route they took.

He looks up to acknowledge Haldir and Rumil. They stand silently by his side, Haldir a little more concerned than Rumil. "Is it the Lady again?" He continues when he receives no answer. "It has been too long that you have lingered here, my Lord. Might it not be wise to seek a new home?" His gaze darkens, voice softening with the ancient sadness of the Firstborn. "Middle-Earth is no longer as it was. She has moved on… perhaps so should we."

Perhaps she has, he mocks silently, but it is not Middle-Earth that he is thinking of now. "I shall remain here until there is no work for me left to do, Haldir. Galadriel only left when her work here was done, and I shall not do anything less. If you desire, however, I shall speak to Orophin and make for arrangements for you and your brothers to sail West." He pauses slightly, holding up a hand, placating. "Do not argue – your ties to this land is not as deep as mine, sincere though they may be. You were only born when the land knew evil, child. You cannot love her as I have done; you cannot love her as I do. And there is, of course, that which should be considered – you do have your betrothed waiting for you on the thither shores, Haldir."

The younger elf looks away, sighing inaudibly. "Do you not miss the Lady as well, my Lord? If you can bear it, why can I not? I will not leave these lands without you, for the Lady has given me the duty of guarding your safety and health while she is gone. I would not bear her gentle reproaches if I returned to her without you, my Lord."

"I am well."

The Marchwarden's sudden boldness would shock him, if not for their long companionship, soldier and lord, father and son. "If you would forgive my rudeness, Lord, I would beg to differ. How much have you slept in the past month, without waking up in the night?" His head bows slightly at the piercing gaze the silver lord gives him, but continues steadily. "I would hesitate to intrude upon your privacy, Lord Celeborn, yet it has been far too frequent for me to pretend neither Rumil nor I have heard anything." He swallows. "You call, my Lord," he says softly. "You call for her, and if it may not be too forward of me, you long for her as well. Then why do you not go to her? There is little that we can do in this world that has refused us anymore – "

Again the pale hand stops him, the gesture serene if not for the nearly imperceptible shaking. "Enough, Haldir." His smile is a little forced, the blue eyes darker than usual. "I know my sentiments towards the Lady Galadriel, and I do not need reminding of it. Do not apologize! You only fear for my health, as you have been wont to do ever since I took you on my watch. If there are no news yet of the two elflings, the two of you should rest. Before that, though… Rumil, will you remove your tunic? I am fairly sure you have a wound that needs proper dressing."

"It – it is nothing, my Lord; I have bandaged it…"

"Apparently so well that you cannot help but wince every time you so much shift your shoulder half an inch," he returns dryly, reaching out to push the fabric away for a better look at the crudely bandaged wound as Rumil reluctantly removes his tunic. "I may not be a healer," he continues staring at him sternly for a brief moment before removing the bandage altogether, "but I believe a soldier should be able to dress a wound at least twice as good as what you just did." He rises, deed done, and rests a hand lightly on the chastised Marchwarden's shoulder. "Rest well – what happened just now we can discuss tomorrow morning. I shall take the first watch."

It is a minute or so that passes before Haldir gathers the courage to speak up. "Shall you take the watch for the whole night, my Lord? You… you do need sleep."

"As do the two long-suffering Marchwardens that should be in Lothlorien instead of roaming these lands with me," he counters. "I will wake you when I begin to tire – do not argue."

The lingering caresses of the wind, blended in with the haunting whispers, settle back in to acquiescence. His head unconsciously angled towards the West, with one last inscrutable glance at the Sea that is although out of his sight, never away from his mind, he allows his eyes to fall shut. The watch, he will leave to his hearing. The night has fallen silent, and the breeze makes no sound among the leaves even as the sky grows even darker, the stars brighter. Then, in the deep, eerie silence of the night, his body jerks forward, formerly inclined lazily on a the trunk of an oak, blue orbs stare front, widened with horror, and a hand raises to press hard upon the chest, above his heart. He can feel the strong – too strong – beating of his heart, and his head bows, almost as though in defeat. _Two times,_ he swallows. _Two times in one night._ It is getting worse far swifter than he had hoped – and in such cases Celeborn has never been one to hold high hopes. Celeborn of Doriath would hope for the best, Celeborn of Lothlorien would hope for the feasibly best – Celeborn of no land hopes – no, he does not. Celeborn, husband of Galadriel, does not hope.

His persistency in remaining has nothing to do with hope that one day he will complete his duty and return to her. Old scars, battle wounds, and memories that never truly leave – he cannot blame Galadriel for leaving, and he will not… but that does not mean that he does not… worry. He laughs. Elrond says that Celeborn and Galadriel do not _worry_, they are too different from all other common couples.

_You are no different from any other_, he hisses poisonously to himself. The wind picks up again, laughing with him, _at_ him. _No, you're not,_ she mocks, the heady voice, richer than gold and yet lighter than feather… too like! _You are no different from any other. Look at these people behind her! Don't you remember that she has kin, kin in high places, Vanya or Noldor, suitors and admirers that lust after her beauty and her wisdom? They are no uncivilized Sindarin Elf, Moriquendi as you are! When you return, she will see nothing in you that she was so blinded to see before. She will see only the ruthlessness, the complicated cunning that Middle Earth has forced upon you, and find your whims petty! When you take her to look at the stars, she will find better things to do with the locksmiths. When you stare to the Sea for the land that has been your long-deceased mother, longing for these shores, she will mock you; she will not understand you! She is not your kind, Celeborn of Doriath, child… She is not yours – will never be. You cannot defeat these things you cannot control, Celeborn. She will not understand your petty jealousies when she has a friendly chat with one of her fawning cousins – protectiveness in Middle Earth will serve only to be pettiness in Aman – Aman is no place for you… Celeborn… Stay, stay here, stay here where the land still remembers you…_

They have never been any different, he realizes. Neither Galadriel, nor himself. Their trust of ages and years long forgotten cannot defeat the insecurities of the Ring. _The Ring, _he mocks, _it is always the Ring. _In Samwise's case, it had been the draw of the One Ring. And yet it has been remedied, given a remedy as there can be. Elrond has always left Vilya much alone – and he is grateful for that, for Celebrian. But Galadriel… It may not seem so to many who have witnessed their quarrels and fights – and yet there was only one time that he moved away from her, that he hardened his heart from her pleadings – that time when she accepted the ring. It hardly worked in the end, in any case. He was unable to refuse her the continuation of the bond, as he has never been able to refuse her anything.

_Pretty boy of Galadriel_, they always whisper when he walks past with Galadriel, neither taller than the other. _I wonder if she does have any fun with him…_ It has always been a private joke between the two of them, how they know not that Galadriel is as dependent on Celeborn as he is in on her, how he is so much stronger – sometimes, wiser. It holds no amusement for him, now. Now he cringes at the possible truth of the statement.

"Are you there, my love?" His murmur is pained, the baritone threatening to break. He stares into the looming, swallowing darkness of the forest, soft voices whispering to him, asking him to join them… And yet none have the rich wont of hers, and the silver head lowers slightly, sighing. But even as the trembling fingers clutch the grey robes of Lothlorien, a voice, softer than those of the forest, more soothing – with the rich headiness that his ears have longed to hear for centuries - passes over the plains of Edoras, "Come, my love… When you are at last weary of your journeys, come home, come home… to me…"

And in the West a star, brighter than any other, and golden even in the distance, glimmers.

I hope you like this installment, I did put in quite some effort, even though I'm not very happy with it. (: Do review, I'd definitely appreciate every single one of them! :D It's not long – but I hope it has some quality. (:

R.B.


	4. Broken

**A/N: **I know it's been a _really_ long time since I've published anything (or updated this work), but I've been really busy what with school work, exams (which are still ongoing! -cries-), school choir, piano exams, etc. All right, I know that those are all rubbish excuses. Sincere apologies to any lovely reviewers (or non-reviewers) who have liked my drabblish one-shots and not seen any of them since a century ago. Still, here it is.

* * *

She is still weak, and tired easily. The day he had carried her, collapsed awkwardly (the only time she has ever been awkward) beside her Mirror, a trickle of blood at the corner of her mouth, the healers had feared for her life. They could not reach her, and it only truly frightened him when he found that neither could he. But Galadriel does not die – she is incapable of dying.

He watches as she sits lightly on the garden bench, then kneels in front of her, pressing his face into her abdomen, breathing in her scent. It is so poignantly unlike him that for a moment she freezes, then relaxes slightly, placing a hand on the back of his neck, gently guiding his face away, tilting it to look up at her. For the briefest fraction of a moment there seems to be vulnerability in his eyes, a hopeless despair that immediately disappears behind the mask of inscrutability when she sees it. He stares at her for another second, then stands, joining her on the bench. "When do you leave?"

She looks at him, a little startled, sharp grey eyes penetrating his. "When do _I_ leave?" She does not release him from her arresting gaze, and the corners of her mouth are tight. "You will not come with me?"

"And leave my home?" He knows the next words are unwise – and unreasonable, but he cannot – will not – stop himself. She understood him too perfectly, too easily – and the truth laid bare before him despite his experiences with such situations is not welcome. They are so alike, however, in many aspects, and he has his pride, even though it almost never shows. "I am a Sindar, Galadriel, with not one single inkling of your Noldor blood. You may find it easy to leave the only home you have known, even kill for the ambition you have, but I am tied to Middle-Earth with bonds you cannot fathom, bonds stronger than you might imagine."

The narrowing of her eyes informs him without doubt that he has indeed struck a vein. "Stronger than our bonds, you mean! Very well, just as you wish – we shall both stay here, until perhaps our bond or yours to Middle-Earth finally wears off, and I leave, or both of us do!"

"No," his answer is swift, harsh – but only because it pains him even to speak it. "You shall go, and I shall stay. And should it be that my journey brings me one day to Aman, I shall perhaps follow you."

She stands, too quickly, but she brushes his steadying hand away when she wavers, and instead grasps the cold, iron arm of the bench. "We shall see, then. You may be my lord, Celeborn, but you do not yet have the power of ordering my comings and goings."

His next words are stilted, almost as though it pains him to speak. "Is it wrong of me as well, then, to wish to stop my wife from killing herself?"

"You are incoherent, husband."

She knows. She knows she is fading, a slower, gradual, tormented variation of the fading of Nenya. Another golden leaf falls through the air, resigned – reluctant. She knows that her attempt to stay in Middle-Earth, in this marred land, is futile. "Why do you persist in lying to me, Galadriel? You know that you cannot stay any longer in Middle-Earth than several summers."

"Summers?" Confusion vanishes into shocked resignation, and she briefly closes her eyes at another surge of pain. Nenya has been too intricately bound with her to let go without this. She pulls her hand down from moving to press n her heart, a gesture to attempt easing the pain. When she looks back at him, his features are inscrutable. Without a word, he turns and walks off. "Wait." She knows he is angry, but suddenly his mind withdraws from hers, ignoring her attempts to retain him.

"Don't." His voice is cold, mocking – not ice and morning, but laughing steel. "The last time you said that the consequences were hilarious."

"Celeborn."

He suddenly curses his name. "You must always win, don't you? You must always have everything you want, and you will not compromise a single inkling. When can you ever trust me, hervess, or will you never?"

Grey eyes flare with anger, meeting blue fearlessly. "Do I not trust you, Celeborn? Have I not confided in you the movements of the Dark Lord, the fears for our daughter? Have I not given you everything you should know – the enemy's movements, Elrond's troubled mind – even the most mundane matters of trade with Cirdan's people? Have I not –"

"You have," he cuts in, dark blue eyes too enigmatic for her liking. "You have told me everything… everything about everyone – except yourself." He averts his eyes. "You close off your mind from mine, Galadriel, even when there is no danger now. How then will you say that you trust me?"

She freezes. "I cannot," she finally whispers tiredly. "Nenya is far too intricately embedded in me… I cannot let you in, Celeborn – she does not allow me to."

He laughs mirthlessly. "Yes. We both are slaves to the accursed ring; I am fairly sure I might be able to empathize with you. Intriguing, isn't it, though, how Celebrimbor plots everything? If he can't have you, he undoubtedly can leave some part of him that will always be in you. Ingenious, no?"

"Jealousy has never suited you, husband."

"But I feel it." There is no defiance in the words that would soothe her wounded pride, only cold, simple fact. "I am jealous. Jealous that you would be dissatisfied with having me alone, jealous that you would choose to allow his craft to bind you. It may not seem like it to you, Galadriel, but I have agreed to share you with him, as ridiculous as this idea sounds, for your happiness, in hopes that you will be satisfied… but you aren't. You want more, now that you know your weapon well enough. I will never know if you regret marrying me – oh, ignore that, if you think it below you – but I will never know. I can only trust you, even as you believe you have trusted me. I can only hope that you do not fade as Nenya does, that you do not perish as your nephew has. And yet all that you will say to me is that I love Middle-Earth better than I do you."

"Do you not?"

His jaw clenches, his gaze dark as he looks at her. "Shall I sleep every night then, with a pile of soil?"

"Ah – the nightly marital duties! I see – so you only married me for this, I trust? I must be grateful then to have such a pretty lover!"

His expression might freeze hell. Then he chuckles darkly. "It hurts, Galadriel. I congratulate you."

"I never miss." The response is swift, cuttingly brusque.

"No, of course not. You never do. I should never have presumed, my Lady; I should never have thought that the jewel of the Noldor would go against her heritage to keep a mere Sindar company. I should never have thought that the treasures of the Noldor could ever be willing to endure the whimsical fancies of a Sindar. I should never have thought that my skills – or perhaps the lack of it – of such marital duties that you speak of can satisfy the Lady Artanis. I apologize, my Lady. I was unaware that you had been dissatisfied with my incapability to please you; I should have known earlier. Perhaps… perhaps you had wanted a male heir?"

Her fingers clenched into a fist in the soft material of her robes. She stares at him, for once eloquence fleeing her, as rationality had done so just a few moments ago. All she is left with, is the pride of the Noldor, the pride that has ever been her charm and her downfall – and she will not relinquish that. Artanis, daughter of Finarfin, is not a coward – she fights. And she _wins_. She always does. "I would lose Nenya, Celeborn – if it meant that I would not lose you. I could cut it off… A few days of rest would be enough for my recovery. Nenya was always… only a potential substitute – if you had left, if you decided that you… could not live any more with me, then… then perhaps, perhaps she could have been of a little use. It is you that I always needed. Always will need."

It might have worked, any other day, when he is too afraid to lose her, when he is too obliging because he loves her too much. It does not. Not today. There is no shift of colours in the dark blue lakes, just a little more weariness, so weary, so – lifeless. "No more games, Galadriel, please." His words are slow, the flickering of a flame that has no longer will to burn. "I may not be able to understand the workings of the Noldor mind, but I know that you cannot cut off Nenya without cutting off yourself. You will fade, and you will die. You do not need to tell me for me to know that you have bound yourself more intricately to Nenya than you have ever with me. It is only fact, Galadriel. I am not saying this to injure, to hurt. I am tired of such games, too tired, too broken – as you have broken me, even as you have completed me. Nenya has broken you – and you have bound yourself so deeply with it that you are now only complete with it. You will kill yourself to have me? No, Galadriel – you are too much pride, too much dignity to do that. You are aware that as long as I know you need Nenya, I will not ask you to cut yourself off from it. Games, Galadriel – am I only a game, to you?"

"I _will_ kill myself to have you, if you ask it, Celeborn…"

"Only because you know I will not ask it. Only because you know I cannot ask it – "

"That is your business, husband! I am not responsible for what you ask and what you do not."

He does not listen, speaking over her as though her presence is no more than a ghost, for once foregoing courtesy and manners. "- Have you ever thought what it feels like? Having three in the bed – and having to try to convince myself that Nenya is not Celebrimbor, that he has not returned from the Halls of Mandos to be with you, be with _us_. But if I cannot have you alone, perhaps it is only chaste that you have Nenya, and I leave? I believe that in our marriage vows we have neglected to mention it." A faint, very faint smile touches his lips – so very faint, yet so very frightening in its radiance. Because Celeborn has never been colours; colours have always been Galadriel, not Celeborn. "Is it adultery, Galadriel? Perhaps not – I did not agree with your having Nenya… but I did agree to stay with you. Is that my sentence, then? My punishment for my own foolishness?"

Her voice is soft when she speaks. "Is it so bad, Celeborn, to have me? Because if it is, then even though you will not ask it of me, I _will_ cut myself off from Nenya. I am not so selfish that I cannot do it for you, Celeborn… or perhaps it is my selfishness, because I cannot live without you. I have never known that you felt – that you felt Celebrimbor's presence so keenly… I thought – " she falters, and the whisper that ensues is pained. "I thought it was only me, only a figment of my imagination…" Then she smiles, his Galadriel, courageous, fearless, and so very, very beautiful. "I shall make sure of it – he will not ever be here again." She begins to turn away, not even looking back the slightest, not even hoping that he will refuse to have this chance to cut off his phantom and yet not-so-phantom rival from his life. Forever.

"Galadriel." He has called her name many times before – adoring, teasing, sorrowful, angry, or even without any emotion at all. But she has never heard her name called – like this. So broken, so unsure, so helplessly anguished. She turns. His face is pale as ever, the dark blue eyes a stark contrast, and yet she knows, she just knows, that he is on the verge of tears. She does not know how the tables have turned, and this time, for once, it is not her doing, but his eyes are pleading, vulnerable, shed of the shields that he can never – or so she thought – shed. "Please. I will have you – and Nenya, if it is what I can only have. I will try – try to forget that it is there… Just – please…" He swallows. "I need you."

She takes a step closer, disbelieving – and finds herself captured in his arms, shaking and needing, gathering her so close, so tightly to himself that she can hardly breathe, but it does not matter any more, except that he is with her, and he still wants her, despite all she has done… all she will do. "Celeborn, I – " Her sentence remains unfinished as his lips descend on hers, desperate, intense, and beneath everything, so very broken.

But it is fine, he murmurs unconsciously against her lips, it is always fine, because he still has her, and she still has him – and although broken beyond repair… they complete each other.

* * *

Again, I'm shamelessly asking for reviews. Do review, please do! :D It'd really make my day. If you'd like to have a particular scene done, you can PM me or just mention it in your reviews, and I'll try my best to do it.

To **Ulrika**, because I can't reply you: I'll be working on that next. I'm not sure if you've seen the one by Sphinx - it was just lovely. :D After my exams, I'll do my very, very best to update fortnightly. No promises though! . I really _hate_ breaking promises... but I really will try my best. :D

To all of my lovely reviewers, I'm so glad that you like my works - please do continue to review and let me know about things I could work on. Lots of thanks and love to every one of you out there! Even the non-reviewers, but do find some time to review, won't you, please? -grins-

R.B.


	5. Falling I

A/N: My sincerest apologies for the late update! This obviously is not very long, but it's just the first of a "two-shot". Enjoy and do review!

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Broken porcelain. Smashed glass. Vehement curses. The tension hums, in the air. Theirs has never been a peaceful relationship, a softly forgiving love. It has edges, jagged and rough, and will cut if need be. They quarrel. They fight. And they curse. Fiery noble maiden of the Noldor, and silver-tongued prince of the Sindar. She is fire and sunset and water, quicksilver and beautiful. He is ice, morning and steel. But it is not everyday that fire will melt the ice, not everyday when morning will oppose the sunset. Sometimes, just sometimes, there is nothing between them – no curse of the Dark Lord, no jealous ring of Celebrimbor. There are times when Galadriel loves Celeborn, and Lothlorien offers them respite from the weariness of the world.

She loves in little ways – the great Lady, glorious and beautiful and tragic as the sun sets loves in the littlest ways. And he loves her for it. He loves her when she runs her fingers through his silver hair, braiding it before the day's work calls them away. He loves her when she waits for his return from the patrols, smiling a little when she sees him. And he loves her when he feels the slightest pressure on his arm as she leans on him.

He loves – he _used to_ love in the typical Sindarin way. Letting her go free, wild, untamed and beautiful in the places of her own choice. She used to love him for it. She doesn't know how he loves anymore. He still lets her do anything she wants. He still accepts every foolish choice she makes. But where he used to watch and care beside her, guiding and loving her, he stands apart now. He watches from afar, from a great distance that she cannot even attempt to cross, and he avoids her if he can. He knows he doesn't want to, and she tells herself that he doesn't. Every glance cast the other way he does not see what is in front of his eyes but the image of her fiery, fiery beauty. Every touch to any other thing he does not touch the object but her, her fair skin and her slender hand.

She doubts his love at times, he can see it in her eyes. She doesn't make an effort to stay close to him any more. Now she loves, if he can convince himself that it is called love, in the Sindarin way. Letting him go as he wishes, letting him get hurt if he wants to. And he loves in the little ways. Anyone in the forests of Lothlorien could easily swear that his lord loved the Lady Galadriel. Desperately. And so he wonders, wonders how she can doubt it, how she cannot see how very much he loves her.

Because it is as plain as daylight to him, and to anyone – anyone but her.

"Celeborn." His heart leaps at the sound of her voice, heady and deep and beautiful. It tries control to not turn immediately. She doesn't want displays of love, and as much as he loves her, he is not masochistic. He doesn't like rejection.

"Galadriel." He returns the greeting smoothly, turning slightly with a faint smile. It hides everything, and he doesn't need to fear that she will taunt him. There has been quite enough taunting from Nenya lately already. He doesn't ask her to join him, as he might have done times back. He doesn't speak; only waits for her to.

"Celebrian shall be arriving shortly." There is a touch of soft sadness in her voice, and he wonders if perhaps, perhaps she _does_ care, if only a little.

"I will be there," he assures.

"Celeborn." This time his heart clenches painfully, and he is not fast enough to hide the quick flash of anguish in his eyes. This time it isn't a greeting, but a plea. A plea. His jaw hardens as his heart, for so long hardened to her subtle requests, softens. He doesn't speak. "We have not spoken in a long time," she continues, the furthest she will reach for him.

He watches her for a moment, the thumb of her right hand brushing over her ring as though to hide the lustre that is so apparent to his eyes. He watches as she stares ahead, not looking at him – afraid, even, to look at him. He sighs. "Shall that change?" Because he loves her, because she is the one with a ring that will render them apart, because he relinquishes the right to choose to her, he is resigned to the fate she will cast him to. But he is not vulnerable. He is not helpless – Celeborn is a warrior, and although circumstances may change that he wields a pen more than a sword, he is not one to surrender. Not, at least, to Nenya. "It does not seem as though it will."

"Will it not? What if I decide to change that?" Her voice is no longer soft and distant, but rich, rich and very much there. Her gaze is a challenge, but when he meets it, it suddenly wavers, and he almost regrets not having let her see the love, the love that hides just behind the hard veil. "Celebrian will be coming soon."

It's almost an excuse, and the little flicker of hope that he has held on to for life extinguishes abruptly. Because as much as he loves his daughter, _their_ daughter, this is only between the two of them. "Not this time, Galadriel," he says, voice even. "If you want this, then you will take it as is your right as my wife – not as the mother of my child. And if you do not…" He fears, fears and despairs that she does not want it. That she will cast him into hell. "If you do not, I am not the master of your speech."

She seems not to know where to look for a few moments. Her voice is level, but the sorrow is no longer hidden, veiled. "And neither am I the mistress of your heart, Celeborn." But she is. She is, whether she knows it or not, and although the knowledge is unlikely, his heart is ruled by her every action, her every step. "I shall leave for the preparations for Celebrian's arrival, husband. I trust we will see you at the welcome." She turns swiftly, and when he reaches a hesitant hand to stop her, the soft silk merely whispers against his fingers before vanishing through the door.

The touch is cool, but warm in his palm as he clenches his hand, almost as though trying to keep the sensation. There is no need, however. It sears upon his heart so painfully that his view blackens, and he is forced to open his hand to clumsily for once grip the banister in an effort to prevent his fall. The cold, carved marble cuts into his palm. But he has already fallen, fallen – just as he has when he set eyes upon the radiance of the Lady Galadriel, except that now, there is nothing to catch him, and no joy in falling.


	6. Falling II

Right. Here you are again! I'm definitely not happy about this one... But I promise a better one as soon as possible! Well then. Enjoy!

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"Ada?" The voice is soft, as the branch lightly shifts under the new weight. Celebrian sighs at the lack of a verbal response, even as an arm slips around her shoulders. "Ada, you can't hide forever." The elven-lord in question almost laughs at the bluntness of the statement. _How very like her mother!_ He still does not speak, however, and lightly she prods him.

"Thank you," he murmurs dryly, brushing aside her fingers, but pulling her slightly closer. "Now, what is it with you again? Much as I enjoy your presence, I can't really pretend to like being disturbed when I'm trying to get a rest." The shoulders under his arm stiffen slightly, and he sighs. "What is it?"

"Ada, you – " She breaks off when he lifts a brow, slightly exasperated, and finally decides on lightly leaping off the branch to a higher one opposite it, fixing her father with a glare. "You're worse than Naneth! I thought to have a break from bickering twins in Rivendell – and here I get bickering couples!"

He laughs lightly, shaking his head. "I'm not sure you have the right couple in mind, Celebrian. I actually remember having to intervene in the middle of some rather severe _bickering_, as you so rightly put it, between a certain Peredhil and his silver-haired wife. Perhaps you're talking about them instead?" A berry flies past his ear as he shifts to avoid the fruit, chuckling.

"Perhaps not bickering," she concedes, concern still in the grey eyes that reminds him so distinctly of – her. "But you have not been this… estranged ever since the War, Ada. I cannot pretend to see nothing when it pains me so much to see the two of you – like this."

Celeborn sighs, shaking his head. "I appreciate your concern, daughter – but this does not concern you. Do not let your heart trouble you too much over this – "

"Ada!" The interjection is sharp. "I think you should stop running away."

Blue eyes, too enigmatic to pass for wellness, meet hers. "That is enough, child. The matters between your mother and I no matter how strained they are should not concern you. I am well, and that will be enough for now."

"Well?" He almost regrets her stubbornness when she does not back down at all. "I beg to differ, my Lord," her eyes are flashing with ire now, and her voice is a cold winter that rivals her mother's. _Her mother's_. "You are most certainly the last thing from being _well_ right now." Her tone softens. "I do not claim to know what the matter is between you and Naneth, and if you desire it I will not ask. But there is no good in ignoring it, Ada. Please, if only for yourself, if only for me, speak to Naneth if not to me. I… I cannot see my parents thus and remain unmoved."

"Celebrian…"

"Please. Because there was one thing that you had said to me and I have since remembered. To hurt your bonded will merely result in hurt in yourself. And Ada… you love her – " She starts as his face pales suddenly, blue eyes frosting. "Ada?" But there is no response, as he turns abruptly, springing off the branch to a lower one, then easily lands on the forest floor. When she is recovered enough to scramble down the tree, there is no sign of him anywhere.

- - - - -

Night falls swiftly, a beautiful, vast blanket that descends upon the horizon. The silver bark of trees reflect off the moonlight. Shadows move, fleet and silent in the forest, patrols that even in the peace of Lothlorien never rest. The unexpected presence of their lord causes the elves to stop. Watching for a moment, the Marchwarden gestures faintly, asking the others to continue on with the patrol as he moves closer, treading on silent feet, only deliberately weighing down his steps when he approaches the elven-lord.

Celeborn does not turn. "Is there aught you wish to speak to me upon?"

Haldir stops a distance from him, hesitating only slightly before speaking. "It is late, my lord. Perhaps you should retire – this part of the Woods is not entirely without danger."

The silver head only shakes slightly. "And with the danger comes a measure of peace that I believe would not be ill for me," he replies dryly. "Continue with your duties, Haldir. I will return when I deem it wise to do so." There is no voice that replies him or departing steps, and he finally turns. The pallor in his face is shocking, and he sighs faintly. "Do not be troubled. It is merely a passing whim that ails me, nothing more. Now, my friend," his tone turns teasing, " you must not shirk your duties thus. Go on."

"My lord, you – you do not look well." He bows slightly, but clear blue eyes raise to meet Celeborn's. "Shall I call for the healers – or if you would not desire their attention, shall I alert the Lady?"

The laughter that succeeds his question is mirthful, but rings hollow. "No, you do not have to do that – I think she is near. If I feel ill, I will not simply faint here, Haldir. Now, go on." He turns to the darker corner of the forest. "My Lady." As if on cue, Galadriel steps out from the shadows, and when Celeborn turns slightly, Haldir has melted away into them. "Perhaps you would be kind enough to… enlighten me on your purpose here?" His voice is smooth, yet hard and cold – the back of a blade, the staleness of battle-stained morning. He does not soften, does not relent – even though his heart is tearing itself apart.

Galadriel pauses, sighing softly, eyes seeming every single year that she has lived – too old, too old for spats and quarrels. "I believe there are matters yet at hand that I have neglected." There is no answer. "Celeborn. We have both said things we did not mean. We have both done things that we regret. We have too many unspoken apologies between us – and now I do not know what to say any more." There is still no response, and her eyes fall shut wearily. "What do you want of me, Celeborn? I no longer know." Not a single word is uttered from his lips, and she finally turns.

The faintest whisper of a touch brushes her hand.

She glances down.

It is trembling.

"Galadriel." She does not know when he has drawn so close, breath warm and soothing and a little shaky upon her ear. The muscles of her fingers move minutely, and suddenly she is snatched savagely towards him, grip tightening on her hand, almost painful. Every single detail – her hand awkwardly on the small of his back, one of his gripping her other hand, and – oh. Feather-light touches, memorizing every curve and angle of her features, ghosting over her eyes, her lips. "Galadriel." She shudders at the timbre. "Galadriel, Galadriel." Desperate, longing, anguished.

She has ever been heady, fiery, and impulsive. But not – not on this matter. She has never kissed him. But her hand trapped between them touching his chest feels the worryingly erratic beat of his heart. Her eyes see the sweet, longing madness in his eyes.

And then her lips taste the morning, the ice, and the steel. And he is falling again. Falling, with abandon, falling, forever – but with her.

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Still, do review, won't you? :D


	7. Doubt

A/N: Here you go again! :D I'm attempting to write as much as I can during the holidays - when school starts it shall definitely be a horrible rush, so yes. This is slightly longer, and hopefully it'll be enough to last me for quite a few weeks! This is for IsaDaYDrEaMer (did I get that correct! ) and Ulrika. Thanks, both of you darlings.

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The first time the High King meets his son-in-law he (almost) outright refuses to call him father-in-law. Doubtless, Finarfin is hardly flattered. As much displeasure as her daughter's marriage has given him, he still expects some decorum from her husband. But Finarfin is not blind, and he can see the years of weariness on the proud shoulders, a string pulled too tight for too long, that it may break any time. And yet he allows the anger to fester a little longer. "You abandoned her, Lord Celeborn. What have you to say of that?"

The icy anger of Finarfin, although it hardly rears its head, is known to quail hearts of many. The temperature of the hall drops abruptly. And yet Celeborn faces it without defense or fear. "She chose to come, my lord. I gave no promise of my joining her, and she knew that. I do not deny that my decision to stay has affected her, but I do not ask forgiveness from you, lord, for that. My absence will bear its consequences – I cannot steer away from that; I will not. But until she chooses, whether to accept or forget me, I will not yet call you father-in-law."

"And yet you claim to be married to her," Finarfin returns bluntly.

Celeborn smiles faintly. "And I am, my lord. We simply have not had your blessings. And as now since I do not yet know either way she chooses, I will not ask for them."

Finarfin turns slightly, studying his daughter blithely laughing with several elves. "At the moment, Lord Celeborn, I do not think she will see you. I will not hinder you, but neither will I offer my help for that."

"She is her own mistress, my lord. I have never contested that and I never will. You have my word that I will not force her to choose me, but ere she left me she had as much need of me as I of her. If that has changed on her part, I do not know. My heart remains hers, however, and I will not forego it for anything less than her happiness."

For a moment the High King only continues to study his daughter quietly. At length, he turns back to Celeborn. "You have my leave to seek her and discover her decision. But if you hurt her, Celeborn of Doriath, know that you will have her entire people's wrath against you."

He bows with the grace of a gazelle. "I take my leave, my lord."

* * *

When they meet again, Galadriel is on Celeborn's arm, and they bow before him, coordinated with an ease of too many times of practice. The mass of golden tresses is for the first time ever since she returned let down, more a fountain than a crown, but a beautifully, intricately braided lock that rests on her head – a garland, and so very radiant. She has never given this much care to her hair, as much as it was coveted, when she had not seen the shores of Middle-Earth. This hairstyle, Finarfin realizes, is not entirely original, but the striking braided lock was never this – exquisite. Very slightly simpler than ever before, but – profoundly exquisite. The smile on her lips, absent before his son-in-law's return, gives a few hints as to the identity of the culprit. After all, Artanis Finarfiniel was only Galadriel after she met her husband. His son-in-law.

He feels an almost ridiculous distaste for this silver-haired elf of hers suddenly, but Galadriel's head raises as if on cue and grey eyes fix his with a stare warning enough for a glare. Then she speaks. "Adar." The name is formalized, as is only appropriate for the setting, but he is grateful that she does not distance herself and call him High King.

"My Lord." He still has not changed the title, but the respect in the tone is deepened and perhaps… drawn in a more personal note?

Finarfin smiles slightly, inclining his head and lifting a hand. "Artanis. Celeborn." The retaining of her father-name before her husband is a slight disregard for the strictest formalities, obvious enough to be noticed, and yet subtle enough to avoid being altogether rude. The silver elf does not move in the slightest, unperturbed, almost as though he does not note the deference of names, but the shade of blue in his eyes shifts a little. "Your mother wishes to speak to you, Artanis."

Galadriel lifts a brow. "As do I her, Ada," she answers dryly, the formal name abandoned, "but that can wait. Some things, however, cannot."

Before he can return the barb with some form of wit, an amused chuckle has already escaped from the lips of… his son-in-law. At times he touches the point of rudeness so politely that Finarfin has to remind himself that he will have to deal with both an over-protective (or perhaps not) Elu Thingol and his undoubtedly furious daughter if he lays his hands on him. "I am sure we will be fine, sell-nin." A silver brow arches, accompanied by a wryly dubious look from Galadriel. He has not seen someone so infuriating and blameless for infuriation for such a long time, and wonders, aggravated, why Celeborn would bother to hide the most natural of reactions while allowing such – _irritating_ and hardly courteous responses to show.

"I have a difficult time trying to believe that, Ada, so perhaps you might spare me the trouble, and simply allow me to listen."

"Artanis!"

Celeborn now watches, no hint of amusement on his face, if one missed the dancing light in serious eyes. He looks almost _grave_. "Ada." Before her tone turns somber Finarfin has already caught the dancing light extinguish abruptly, and inwardly flinches at the strength of their bond. "If you have not come to terms with our marriage, you must, before speaking to Celeborn. We were married without your blessing or Naneth's, and we have learned to live with only what we have, for too many centuries. You were not there when I bound myself to Celeborn, and although none can fault you, we have lived with its consequences – so must you. I will not estrange myself from Celeborn to please you, nor should you think that he has taken me from you." She pauses. "He hasn't." The unvoiced accusation lies between them. _You left me._

"Artanis…"

Pain tints the air so strongly and suddenly that Celeborn's eyes reflexively snap to Galadriel's scanning her swiftly before looking towards Finarfin. "We need speak no more on that," he says quietly, voice ringing with authority, and Finarfin is once again reminded that this elf, this seemingly _pretty_ elf, has commanded a whole army facing darkness of such that he himself has not known for as long. This is no pretty boy of Galadriel's, as the rumors have said, although pretty he certainly is – beauty that can match his daughter's any day. He is no weak elfling, and he has seen horrors for so long that authority which comes as gift to Finarfin is merely habit to Celeborn. High King Finarfin raises a brow at the commanding tone of his voice.

Celeborn does not duck, does not flush at the liberty he has taken, merely returns the gaze. Unwavering, stern, and yet without a hint of arrogance, merely – truth. Truth, Finarfin realizes. Truth is what makes his bluntness polite and his eloquence sincere. Truth is what Galadriel saw in him, what Artanis never could find in any of her suitors, though many be pretty, graceful, commanding. Truth in its unadulterated, pure form. Truth that will never bow its proud head – nor will he. Finarfin begins to understand.

Then he speaks again. "High King Finarfin." And he relinquishes the authority that has rung from his voice just moments ago.

Finarfin shakes his head. _Celeborn the Wise. Prince of Doriath. Lord of Eregion, Lord of Lothlorien. _Every title rings true. "You may take your leave, if you wish."

The silver head inclines, and taking his Lady's elbow gently guides her from the hall.

* * *

His fingers find their way in her tresses easily, gently tugging the luxurious silver silk yarn holding her intricate garland of braids together from her hair, fingers replacing the duty of a brush. She studies their countenance reflected in the mirror, while he merely studies the flawless strands of living gold in his hands meticulously. At length the fingers tire of their task, and wander slightly, touching her neck, her throat, her jaw, her temples lightly. Her hand lifts, trapping one wandering hand in hers, pressing her lips to the palm. He shivers slightly despite himself, and sigh. "Deeds done cannot be undone, Galadriel."

She shakes her head. "I know. I do not seek to undo them, merely their consequences. He judges you not with the standards of the world you were brought up in. I had no choice but to bring these unwanted memories up." She tugs lightly on his hand, drawing him closer, and obligingly he kneels beside her, hand, though, disobediently brushing her side.

He laughs quietly as she touches his cheek. "My beautiful, fiery defender."

"You want of no defense," she murmurs, nevertheless dropping her hand and turning to look out of the window, still too devoid of trees for her taste.

"And yet you defend me," he returns, touching her cheek in turn to draw her gaze back. "Galadriel, you always have a choice. When you chose Nenya you had a choice – to keep me or to not. When the Ring passed through Lothlorien you had a choice – to die or to live. When I returned you had a choice – to return to me or to not. You always had a choice, always have, always will have."

She sighs. "Somehow I doubt you gave me much of a choice for the third – I could not have refused you."

"And for that I will ever be grateful. I know not what I might have done if you wished me gone. And yet tonight you could have remained silent – you were not to blame that he returned to Aman. He had his duties here."

Wearily she rises, walking over to the balcony. "It was easier to pretend all that never happened when I had not said it out loud."

He laughs, a little bitterly. "It hurts, does it not? Being abandoned, even though it wasn't truly abandonment." Something in his voice causes her to turn sharply. The flash of some emotion in his eyes is gone too quickly for her to recognize it, and her mind immediately presses in on his, gently demanding to know the reason. He mildly protests, barriers too half-hearted to withstand her questions.

"I – "

He shakes his head, leaning in to press his lips on hers briefly. "Do not apologize, Galadriel. You had to leave, and I had to stay. It was a mutual agreement, one that hurt both of us, but we agreed, if not entirely willingly."

"At times you are too good for me, Celeborn."

"Hmm." His voice takes on a different turn, the playfully thoughtful hum vibrating warmly against her jaw. "Not now, then, you must be thinking."

"_Celeborn_!"

"It is not the time for grieving, Galadriel. Not tonight."

* * *

"You have found in your wife a fierce defender, Celeborn," Finarfin remarks, almost casually – too casually, rather.

Celeborn tips his wine glass slightly towards the moonlight, shrugging elegantly. "She says that I need no defense as well." There is something, some humour hidden behind the twin lakes, azure and very calm.

"Perhaps not, and hopefully so then." He pauses. "You did not promise to return to her." Accusation sounds all too loudly in the statement, and Finarfin does not bother to hide his displeasure at that. Perhaps their marriage he can accept, perhaps their bond even stronger than his with Earwen – but this, never, at least not without a satisfactory explanation, and he does not know of any that he can think of which might even be valid, much less satisfactory.

There is no sign of nervousness in his son-in-law's movements – all perfectly coordinated and entirely without sound, even as he sets his glass on the banister, fingers still supporting the stem. Calmness Finarfin can tolerate, but the stealthy elegance of a cat seems to be deliberately infuriating. Still, of course there would be nothing he fears – his daughter is no doubt fierce enough a defender for any crimes he might have committed. An amused smile touches his lips. "If there was anything I had done that I have not yet paid for, Galadriel will be among the first to ensure my knowledge of it, my lord. She does not tolerate injustice." At least it is now apparent that keen perception lies in the line. The amusement slips away. "I could not have promised my return, my lord. Middle-Earth was left to the Edain – a faithful line no doubt, and yet without the lifespan nor the memory of the Firstborn. Aman was left in good hands – hands of the Valar – when Galadriel left. The shores I have abandoned were not. Galadriel knows that I have duties to my land of birth, and she has accepted that." He does not continue, but the unvoiced are always too clear. _Can you?_

Finarfin's eyes narrow. "And you hurt her."

"As did she I," he counters softly.

"She is my daughter, Celeborn." There is a note of warning in the calm voice, a signal of impending danger.

"And my wife, father-in-law." He returns evenly, amusement threading through the tone, the faint hint of a smile lingering on his lips.

Finarfin shakes his head. "You do not know the hurt you dealt her with."

The blue eyes harden slightly. "Millennia, my lord," he says quietly. "Millennia I have stayed with her, loved her, known her. Millennia we have been together, separated – and yet you say that I do not know hurt." A bitter smile lifts the corners of his lips. "You know your daughter, lord. Hurt she has inflicted upon you and your family, your friends – her friends. Hurt – time and again, hurt, guilt, regret, grief – it does not ever stop. To love her is to know pain. To love her is to burn. You were with her as she grew in Aman. I was with her as she matured in Middle-Earth, and you know it is not a place of peace. Millennia, lord – and yet you ask of me to measure her pain with mine, to compare our pain, to calculate and evaluate that which has filled both our lives."

The quiet vehemence cuts, and Finarfin finally understands how Galadriel might have found him – suitable. Both of passion – one of fire, the other of ice. "I will not ask that of you if you so desire," he replies. "You have known too much pain and wear to endure interrogation, and although I am not satisfied, I will not press. There is only one thing I must ask. Does she love you?"

If then it were vehement anger, it is now perturbed irritation that colours his words. "You hardly do your daughter justice, lord."

"There has been rumours," the elven-king returns levelly.

Laughter rings richly from the silver-haired elf, as rich as it is quiet, and Finarfin is reminded of Elu Thingol – treading upon blunt courtesy as though it were a wide path and yet never falling either way. "I hardly think it would be a basis for your question, my lord."

"Perhaps not. But they have given me reason to wonder. If I were not there at your betrothal, then at least I should have words to set my mind at peace."

All hint of humour disappears abruptly, gone without leaving a single shred or trace. "My lord, you were not there as a decision – your decision. It is too late now to ask vows from us – to you." His voice is smooth, and yet there can be no doubt as to the utter cold in it.

Finarfin lifts a brow. "You harbour anger towards me for my absence, Celeborn."

The twin lakes are devoid of all emotion. "I was present when you were not, lord. I saw her tears, heard her weeping… I felt her pain, and there was nothing that I could have said or done. You knew of our correspondence when you came. You saw it, heard of it, and yet you did nothing, said nothing – not one word of blessing nor one word of displeasure. Not one demand of loyalty to her, to protect your daughter. Not one advice to her – and yet now you want word of her love, her happiness. Perhaps it is natural that I find that intriguingly… curious?"

He is stepping directly upon the line of discourtesy, and Finarfin forces himself to restrain his anger. "Not one word I said would have changed things then, from what I heard."

Ire flickers in sapphire eyes. "Your daughter may have a will of her own, your Highness, but she is not to be trifled with. I was merely her lover – we had no obligations to each other, and neither would I have pressed her if she desired to sever our connections."

"Perhaps all you say is correct, Celeborn, but I would still have your word."

"On what, lord? Her happiness? This is a matter between Galadriel and I, lord – I have stayed with her until she decided to leave, and I stand here before you. What greater evidence do you want?"

There is no more barrier of courtesy between them. "She is my daughter, Celeborn."

"Your persistence in this subject is wearying, lord."

Finarfin's voice drops dangerously. "It would be wise to remember your place, Lord Celeborn. This is no longer Middle-Earth."

A bitter laugh escapes his lips, the only sign of uncontrolled emotion yet. "No, it is not. And Galadriel is no longer Artanis, King Finarfin. You have left her to her own ends, and when she chooses them, you doubt them, you question them. Is this what Aman teaches? I have seen enough to doubt that Middle-Earth is not forsaken. Do we not wish to remember our places? To the child never once a child, to the child forced to lead hundreds, to the prince never meant to be a king – abandon them, then chastise them for desiring to survive! Is this the way of the Valar, then?"

The blasphemy hangs heavily, perilously in the air. "You were no less hurt than even Elrond, were you?"

Celeborn merely smiles faintly. "Shall hurt yet be measured, lord? She desired no more than your blessings, be they subtle or hinted, but you remained silent. I wanted no more than your daughter's hand – and on it came yet a ring. Too many times – shall hurt be measured?"

Finarfin sighs, for once seeing the elf before him truly – no more, no less. A child grown up too quickly, a youth grown old too swift. Young, yet so old. Wise, and yet so anguished. "Not now at least," he says gently. "I will question no more – you have need of rest. And healing."

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Might I possibly ask for reviews? :P


	8. Fear I

**A/N: **My very sincerest apologies for this late (and short) update (of rather dubious quality), but I have been extremely busy, which while being far from a valid reason, the truest and best that I can give. That said, I hope you'll like this. Thank you for all your support - it's what keeps me writing (apart from my love of this pairing)!

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Celeborn is attached at the hip to his wife, the rumours go. He is not. Elrond, however, is known for bringing Celebrian along to far too many meetings – or so the rumours go, because it is actually Celebrian who insists on going along. Celeborn and Galadriel are far older, and too used to separation to do such, although they understand. So does Ereinion Gil-galad, but he still can't help but tease Elrond whenever he gets the chance to.

They often sit at the rocks of the beaches facing the east, together – and Celebrian will let Elrond go alone, trusting, if not Ereinion entirely to keep him from trouble, her father. They used to do that often as well, back in Middle-Earth, although for a very different purpose and with very different sentiments altogether. The irony is not lost on them as they stare over the seas for a sight that even the keen elven eyes cannot see. Despite all they have gone through together, their eyes are still a little different (apart from the colour, that is) – Celeborn's a little calmer and subdued, Elrond's more pained than longing, and Ereinion's… well, less acute than strange.

Most of the time, none of them talks. It is an oddly interesting thing, to see the boisterous Ereinion Gil-galad silent, but even the youngest of elves on these shores know of the deeds he has done in Middle-Earth, and some, if not all, still understand. The three figures seem strangely forlorn, and at times, older than they usually look, as they stare out. Elrond is a little more scholarly than the others, Celeborn a little more lordly, and Ereinion more kingly. None of them look _princely_, so far as the title extends to young spoiled sons of kings. There has been talk, lately, of the crowning of some of the adolescents in the royal families, one of the odd things that even the wisest of elves sometimes indulge in due to the generally mundane cheerfulness of Aman as a whole. There are princes everywhere, every corner in the House of Finarfin, and for a few days the three were almost to be crowned princes together as well, by blood, relation, or deed.

The escape had been somewhat a rougher strategy than the three would have liked, but enough to set the Houses on fire regaling the dramatic tales of how they grandly refused the honour and disappeared (_never to be seen again_, some had wished to add, but the tales are ruined by their rather blatantly nonchalant tours of the cities).

"What do you say to another walk around the town?" Ereinion suddenly asks.

The two stare, lift eyebrows, and affect similar countenances of indifferent incredulity. "I sincerely doubt Galadriel or Celebrian will ever forgive me should we ignore these… _customs_ with such deliberate grace again," Celeborn remarks dryly.

"Grace?" He looks every inch the Master of the Last Homely House as the customary smile disappears, even as it leaves in its wake amusedly twinkling eyes. "If you would call that grace, I would even deem Galadriel's fury graceful."

"It is, to an extent," Ereinion insists, then at Elrond's raised brows, continues, "that is – until the first vase transforms gracefully into a thousand shards."

Celeborn rolls his eyes – inwardly. "Have you found someone to interest you? Perhaps then you will find other things to do that do not include laughing at us – for what reason I've never found out."

The only unmarried elf laughs and shakes his head. "As delightful as some of the elleth are, I find it much more interesting to laugh at you."

"More _amusing_, you mean," Elrond mutters darkly under his breath, but the tone turns somber, a little resigned, a little wistful as he continues. "Those who have gone through what you have – or at least something of similar darkness – are no longer alone, and would rather not be burdened with memories as such you have. Those who have not…" he trails off, and shrugs. "Those who have not know too little of death."

"Or of life," Celeborn interjects quietly. "They have seen too little of what we have to understand life as we can."

Ereinion looks thoughtfully at the both of them, then shakes his head again. "It isn't so much of what they do not know, once one gets to know them. It's not seeing things through rose-tinted glasses, but seeing things through –" he waves vaguely at the invisible substance around him, pausing. "- the air. Too transparent, and too… surreal." He shakes his head once more, sighing in mild frustration. "Everything is too simple for them here – they're taught everything without being given the chance to stumble and stand again. The most interesting ones are less intriguing than any of those puzzles in Middle-Earth. I lose interest far too quickly – or know that I will, to truly delve deep." He laughs, a little self-effacing. "To stay long enough to see what is underneath the simple layers – although as of now I suspect there is nothing."

"And yet they still pursue, and you are too kind – or too amused, I wonder – to reject them."

"As they still pursue you too, father-in-law," the younger of the dark-haired Noldor remarks casually.

Ereinion snorts. "Celeborn was always too pretty for his own good. The only reason why none of the elleth has made a move is because Galadriel is rather poisonous and capable of jealou –" He ducks quickly as a rock, too jagged and dangerous for play on Aman, although too useless if they were on the shores of Middle-Earth, is thrown at him, "-sy."

"You were never exceptionally steadfast in Middle-Earth either," Elrond points out. "How many hearts did you break during your reign – or even before?"

"None," the answer comes swiftly, a little amused. "Too many of them were more interested in the crown than me to have had any more than a stunted hope." His voice stops abruptly, grey eyes darkening a little.

"All except one," Celeborn's voice is calm, low – if a little quiet. "Where is she?"

There is no answer for a long moment – but eventually it comes, stilted and stiff through painfully gritted teeth. "Married." He doesn't seem inclined to continue in this line of conversation for a few minutes, and neither of the others speak. There is no need for explanation – the bonds forged in the dark times of Middle-Earth seldom continue unhindered on the thither shores. Aman is too much light, too much goodness such that more often than not the darkness in the one who returns later becomes unbearable where in Middle-Earth it would have seemed merely natural. Coming back from the dead is no exception, and they all know it. Ereinion sighs. "Before any of you had come back, she married on these shores. I was too young at that time to attend her wedding, but those memories had already returned. I knew. I understood." He chuckles self-deprecatingly. "It was rather childish – I didn't eat for ten days, and Mother was rather worried. She came over to visit me, alone – once. I believe I wasn't the most friendly of hosts, but she has since disappeared from the circles of the nobility."

"You never sought her?" Probably a question aimed more inwardly than to Ereinion, Elrond receives a raised eyebrow.

"She's married, Elrond."

Celeborn looks over, expression unreadable. "And you, Ereinion?"

Dark silver eyes stare back into deep blue for a long while, then Ereinion stares and disappears even as Gil-galad laughs and changes the topic. Owing to some unknown design, they end up laughing at the horrors of Dagorlad, their laughter low and not at all amused, and if one were to listen closely, very much haunted.

That night, almost as though it were a mockery to the terrors of Dagorlad, thirty adolescent elves dressed in orcish armour (where they came from, though, no one knows) ambush the three. They ward them off easily enough, but they do not stay long together after that, knowing themselves to have known too much darkness for comfort to any of the others.

- - - - -

Celeborn knows better than to indulge in these fears, because things that have already passed their time to happen will not happen. But he still fears, irrational as it is, because when he returns, a little wounded and extremely tired, Galadriel has gone, leaving a note in her wake. It is clear enough a missive, if a little short, but he immediately leaves the grounds and disappears for days. It is half a month before he is back, a week after Galadriel returns. They are courteous, if not fully civil, and do not speak of his sudden, uninformed departure. Haldir and Rumil, still in service of their own willing, hope that they have finally gotten over quarrelling entirely, but see their Lady's eyes deepen in resolve, and their hope is instantly dashed. They leave the grounds silently, knowing by experience that the night will be long.

Evening grows old. "What happened?" She finally asks, directly and without ceremony.

He looks a little too surprised to be shocked, then speaks, but does not answer. "Gilwen married," he says shortly. "Before you returned." The silence draws on too long, and he continues, too willingly to yield any truly relevant information. "Ereinion is still Gil-galad," he murmurs pointedly.

"We both know that," she returns a little impatiently. "What happened?"

"He is troubled, but certainly he will be fine, and without aid from us," he supplies, and watch impassively as her features turn to stone.

"You are hiding," she declares, and he bites back the urge to laugh. Laughing would give him away, he knows, and simply stares back. Again, silence continues its long tyrannical reign over the conversation, and Celeborn sighs, only to look back sharply at her as her mind closes in, pressing for information.

His barriers slam down, blue eyes steely, warning her not to press. "It is nothing of relevance, Galadriel."

She stares, angry. "Nothing of relevance? Perhaps you would say nothing of importance as well, hervenn? What pleasure is there in hiding, or do you enjoy worrying me? I left, leaving a note because he needed me urgently, and when I return I see nothing but an empty home. You did not even think to inform me of where you went – and now that I am asking you what happened, you refuse to tell me."

"You shouldn't ask," he says smoothly, strong undercurrents beneath the false calm of his eyes.

"I shouldn't ask?" Ire aroused, she steps closer, grey eyes flashing, and he immediately steps back. "I return from an urgent affair and find my husband gone without a word. Now he says that I shouldn't ask?"

His reply is short, even if only because he knows if he says more, the matter will be out in the open in seconds, and he is not in a mood to have his heart and mind laid out for probing and experiments. "You can if you wish to."

"You are acting as though you were jealous of _Celebrimbor_."

He stares at her for a moment, then turns and leaves without another word.

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**A/N: **And now for shamelessly asking for reviews! Please, please, please do review and tell me what you think of this! It's not over, not yet, and I know it is of really horrible quality, but PLEASE do review!


	9. Fear II

A/N: I am terribly sorry – I know I promised a quick update, but I lost inspiration for much of the week and hence… well, you see what comes out. I hope you'll enjoy this chapter! :D Please _do_ review – it's always wonderful to hear from all of you.

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He disappears the next day, nowhere to be found, and Galadriel leaves for Tirion's halls where Celebrimbor and her father's kin reside. Haldir and Rumil say not half a word, even though a dozen elf-children could scarcely have expressed more than they. A week later, Elrond sends a message to Galadriel. It does not reach her, but that very night a dozen elves have been seen riding east. Galadriel only hears of the news when Elrond has spoken to Haldir of the message, but even then there is little sign that Galadriel has received them.

Celeborn is used to ignoring his wounds. In Middle-Earth there are always better things to be concerned with, and they do not include his health. Elves heal quickly, and even quicker in Aman, but at times it seems that it is not entirely something to be glad of. At times, it also seems that adolescents born in the light can still be touched by the darkness, because even though Aman is full of light, there are still places that light does not yet penetrate. Celeborn's shoulder is pierced by a blade, and although the blade is hardly to be called deadly, the poison is nearly that.

"It does seem as though my paranoia isn't truly paranoia, and that there is still need for more of it," Celeborn murmurs suddenly, standing at the edge of the balcony, knowing full well that Elrond is behind him, and not at all pleased to see him away from the bed.

"Have the two of you quarreled again?" It is somewhat an unnecessary question, especially since not one word has been sent from Tirion's halls since the messenger departed and returned. But it is a way to start the conversation, especially when his wife is not there to be familiarly blunt. Celebrian is away in the gardens of Yavanna, and they both know that Celeborn is glad of it, even though he does not say a word of it either. "How long do you expect this to go on, father-in-law?"

"Expect what to go on, Elrond?" There is no answer for a long time, and Celeborn, too tired for games, gives in. "Galadriel is not Celebrian, Elrond, and I am not you." He shakes his head slightly. "How fares Gil-galad?"

Elrond sighs exasperatedly at the change of subject, but does not return to what should be more urgent matters. "Ereinion is fine," he answers, "but Gil-galad is not." He sighs. "I doubt he will be fine for a long time yet."

"I wonder if the split personality does him any good," the silver-haired elf remarks, a little amused.

"The split personality was always there anyway," the dark-haired one, slightly amused, and slightly disconcerted. "It just didn't use to have a name."

"Names help, nevertheless." Blue orbs flicker to the younger elf-lord's face and then away, having perceived what he wishes to. "Ereinion is still Gil-galad, Elrond. They are still essentially the same person."

Elrond chuckles, half surprised, half not. "I should have known that Celebrian got her perceptiveness from her father, who has it in greater store than she does. Nothing ever escapes your attention, does it? Is it not tiring?"

Celeborn only stares at the scenery in front of him, too perfect to be truly Imladris as they know it. "You are still as a son to him."

"Apparently because I have a father now – even if he is a star – Ereinion no longer thinks as such," he counters.

Celeborn smiles faintly, shaking his head. "You are already a grandfather, Elrond, and you have seen things that he has not. You have gone through darkness that although perhaps not darker than he has seen, different from it. He is unmarried, physically thousands of years younger than you, and you have now bonds that were forged in his absence – strong bonds that he knows you depend greatly upon. He knows he died – that he left you before you felt you were ready, although truly you would never have felt ready, and that while he wasn't there you had to live on, with others. Gil-galad in him still loves you dearly, but Ereinion was born here – he will not show it."

"The love that is seen everywhere in Middle-Earth is not suited for this world." He sighs, slightly resigned. "will we ever be at peace here? Perhaps the darkness is far too deeply enrooted in our hearts for the light of Aman."

Celeborn offers no opposing voice. "It hurts, doesn't it? The bright painful ache that is frankly not unlike that of the eyes when they meet light after having been born in darkness, used to living in dim light. And the awkwardness of not fitting in a perfect society…"

"A society that is not so perfect after all," Elrond interjects pointedly, staring at Celeborn's bandaged shoulder. "There is evil stirring in Aman, Celeborn – you can feel it. So can I. There are terrifying things that young elves can do more easily where adults cannot. We both learned that in Middle-Earth." He chuckles darkly. "I begin to wonder if I should have stayed where I belonged."

"You belong where Celebrian is. She will forgive neither you nor me if you stayed in Middle-Earth. You promised her, Elrond. Do not regret that you kept your word."

"And you, father-in-law? You gave no word that you would follow… and yet here you are."

The silver gaze is piercing, a little too discerning for anyone who would have secrets. "Why are you asking this, Elrond? For Celebrian?"

The younger elf-lord shakes his head. "You need Galadriel, Celeborn, as I need Celebrian – not in the same way, I cede, but you need her. If you do not tell her of the troubling matters in your heart, how do you expect her to trust you?"

There is a long silence, tense and drawn in mid-air. "I don't," Celeborn says quietly. "Elrond, this is not your battle to win – rather…" he pauses, a wry smile tugging at his lips, "it isn't a battle to win at all." He knows very well that Elrond's concerns are not assuaged by his words, but he does not wait for the counter-argument, merely turns and exits the balcony. She does not understand, and he knows she will not. At this moment, he has far more urgent things to think about that do not quite involve her – or the matters of his heart, because the darkness even on Aman has stirred, and he is still too much a Moriquendi (he laughs quietly, contemptuously at himself, at the derogatory term) to trust that the authorities on Aman will hold the evil at bay. When there is a battle to be had, Celeborn knows which to choose – battles of the heart or of goodness and evil. Only, he forgets (or ignores the fact) that Aman is not Middle-Earth, and darkness is a far more foreign concept to these children of light than even death. The darkness that they know is the glory of fey battles, the grandeur of times they cannot begin to imagine or understand. They do not know _this _darkness.

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Do be a dear and review? :D


	10. Fear III

**A/N:** My sincerest apologies for the delay in putting this up, and there really isn't much plot in this particular chapter – I promise more in Fear IV ^^ Which might or might not be coming up next, depending on my rather spontaneous inspiration. The quality is a little horrid, but I hope that I've done a passable job at least. It's been such a busy week and I'm a little distracted by all the other characters that I'm writing. Enjoy and thanks for reading!

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"You have found out what House they are from?" Celeborn hardly looks up from his work on the desk as he poses the question. "Shall I presume – " The pen suddenly drops from his fingers as sharp pain courses through his entire body, and a swish of heavy, ornate robes can be heard as Elrond immediately moves forward, reaching out in slight alarm. By the time his hand reaches the older elf's temple, the pain has passed, and Celeborn merely shakes his head slightly, warding off the concern. "There is no need for worry – I am fine. What House are they from?"

"Finwe." The one word is accompanied with a heavy, yet hardly audible sigh.

Silver brows draw together in faint incredulity. "Noldor?" Another moment and the incredulity is cast away, replaced with some shred of pity. "_Princes_, indeed – if they can allow their princes to roam the land in orc-form, then they hardly retain any wisdom that they have been bestowed with."

"Apparently so," Elrond replies, with a little more regret. "Their blood is related to the House of Fingolfin, even though they have perhaps some of… Feanor's blood as well."

Celeborn shrugs, then returns to the papers on his desk. "The High King shall be notified of this, then." He pauses slightly. "Do you know the poison from Middle-Earth?"

"It is fatal, that much I know." The words are measured, said with such carefulness that it is apparent he is watching for some reaction from Celeborn.

There is a low chuckle, and Celeborn continues with his work without even raising a brow. "And even you, Master Halfelven, cannot remove the poison? That is indeed grave." His voice is anything _but_ grave though, and draws a quiet laugh from the Peredhil.

"By way of passing the message, father-in-law… you have a guest."

The tone of his voice is enough to finally rouse Celeborn's attention, and when he looks up, he freezes. Radiant, beautiful as ever, unspent anger in a pale, pale face… "Galadriel." It is moments after her entrance that he speaks her name, and rises from his seat. He does not say a word more, merely stands and stares at her.

She does not move. "I hear you were wounded," she says, her voice cool and emotionless, not the slightest hint of concern in her voice.

"You received the message?" His tone makes it clear it is more a remark than a question, although the blue depths dull a little wearily. "One would have thought it'd entirely missed you."

She lifts a brow indifferently. "You apparently did not. Elrond informs me that you are working too much and paying too little mind to your wound."

He smiles faintly and shrugs. "Wounds can be healed with rest, Galadriel, but poison will not dissipate should I be rendered unconscious for the rest for my life." He watches as her eyes narrow slightly, reading more than is said aloud. "It seems that there is no cure for this poison – even if the healer is Elrond."

"What poison is it?" It seems as though she has decided to abandon the former path her thoughts had previously taken and pursued another path.

"I do not know," he answers carelessly, and sits down, waving Galadriel to another chair. "Elrond has apparently not seen fit to tell me anything about it, apart from that it is fatal. He claims to have never seen the poison before."

He is still not moving, not closing the distance between them, and Galadriel seems fairly contented with it. Distance, as frustrating as it seems at times when one is attempting to minimize it, is a safe, foolproof way to keep the place between them. Besides, drama may be interesting and quite sufficient for dispersing boredom, but even Galadriel and Celeborn can get tired of games, however intriguing. She does not speak either, looking for all the world as though silence is the most natural thing that occurs when they are together. It isn't; quarrelling is. They are so different, so proud that it should be silence that happens routinely. Somehow, it doesn't. It happens – and indeed, frequently as well, but this silence is painfully unnatural – even if it _is_ peaceful.

"By way of speaking," Celeborn suddenly speaks again, "the House of Finwe has again bred some elves of dubious intentions."

"Elrond says that there is evil stirring in Aman."

"A mildly interesting matter," Celeborn returns casually, eyes flickering to the papers on his desk then back to Galadriel. "Something less… restive than other things. And less festive – if those festivals you have here can be called festive."

Galadriel pauses. "You are bored," she suddenly declares. "Restless."

He shrugs, agreeably indifferent. "The very epitome of boredom, quite – if not for being rather weary as well."

Her response comes swiftly, as though she were eager for the answer, but the tone is tired. "Perhaps you would rather have remained in Middle-Earth."

Blue depths turn cold abruptly. "And perhaps you should have slightly more faith in me. Certainly you are not suffering from lack of attention, and I am hardly interested in bringing down your self-esteem. If it is not yourself that you doubt, then so follows that it is me instead. Why?"

Galadriel looks away. "Am I not entitled to harbouring suspicion if you have been removing your presence from our home frequently without half a word, for long periods of time? You know very well what I would think, and you persisted in doing it."

He raises a brow. "What would you think? Betrayal? Infidelity? Or is it _disinterest_ that you have suggested just a few moments ago?"

"One would be a fool if he thought disinterest could not inspire infidelity."

He blinks at the statement. "You think me disinterested in you."

"What else would you have me think instead?"

He stares. "You are indeed strange," he sighs exasperatedly. "Galadriel, what would you have me do to convince you of my love? I have followed you here – following you the only reason that I came. I have declined Elu's hospitality in his lands, just so you can stay near to your kin. I have attended functions and festivals with you – what more do you want?"

She does not answer for a long while, and when she speaks she changes the subject. "You are disinterested – in the peace of Aman?"

"Not the peace," he murmurs. "That is what we fought and died for – that is what we lived for. It's an illusion, Galadriel. The peace is an illusion – there is evil that is plotting against the elves already, and evil not entirely unlike that we have seen in Middle-Earth, only much more in the dark."

She frowns, slightly impatient. "Then what?"

"Galadriel…" He shakes his head, weary and tired and very, very old. "That isn't the point." Because he knows, he knows very well that there simply isn't a point. It is a mess, a wreck, a never-ending spiral, and there is just no point at all. In life, in love, in everything. It's one of the worst clichés he has ever heard of, and yet it is one that is true. Tired and restless and bored – if he weren't so badly battered, so extremely tired, perhaps he could have attempted to do things to dissipate the dark, restless boredom. But he is, and he has no more energy (or health, thanks to a few spoiled, ignorant adolescent elves that have no knowledge or experience whatsoever how to hide their identity) to do anything about it. She opens her mouth to speak, but immediately his finger is on her lips, stilling them. "Hush. It's nothing that we can do anything about."

She glowers at him for a moment, then steps back. Galadriel is not a person of inactivity – indeed inactivity riles her. Throw her any challenge and she will solve the problem in a day or less – but tell her to wait, and there will be no end to her wrath. Her voice is icy. "So I am supposed to wait and do nothing while you die of boredom? You're going to spend the rest of your life here, _hervenn_ – it's not a temporary haven."

"I am speaking but the truth," he answers coolly, but stops when the door opens, revealing Elrond, staring at them with a look that plainly questions their sanity.

"Quarreling _again_?" The voice is calm, but the undertone is a little more incredulous than surprised. "Is there no way the two of you can speak civilly? I begin to pity Celebrian."

"Elrond." Celeborn speaks first. "Have you their names? Give them to me and I shall inform the High King of it."

Elrond frowns, this time a little more surprised. "It's hardly like you, Celeborn – do you not wish to find out the one behind all these? Especially one who can inject a fatal poison – if more a slow poison than anything else – into your body?"

Celeborn sighs. "They deserve a chance," he says quietly.

"You never used to think that," the dark-haired elf returns, equally quietly, all signs of amusement on his features having disappeared. "What is wrong?"

"Nothing is," Celeborn answers easily. "I have neither energy nor the interest to deal with such a foe – right now. Besides…" His lips turn up in a faint, faint smirk. "Aman is in need of something more serious than a fatal poison injected into a mere lord."

For a moment he stares at Celeborn, then turns to Galadriel, who returns his look levelly, the slightest hint of intense amusement in her silver eyes. Then he rolls his eyes. "Incorrigible," he mutters, and exits the room.

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Do be a dear and review, as always! ^^ I'd love to hear from all of you – any ideas/suggestions/criticism would be welcome. :D

R.B.


	11. Interlude

**A/N:** I am awfully sorry that this took so long, and is extremely short, but I've not been able to churn out anything at all these few weeks. In any case, as a sort of apology - you can pick one of these one-liner prompts and I'll write a short piece on it (definitely longer than this though). You could just review and tell me which one you'd like. :D And yes, this is a bit different from what I've written so far, but hopefully it's not a horrible change. I just really couldn't write anything else.

**Regarding Fear (I, II, III), **I'm going to leave it as it is for now, but I'm still open to suggestions, and if I decide to continue it, it'll probably be as a separate fic, with the chapters already written reviewed and edited again.

All contents that follow are an official addition to the 1sentence livejournal community, and the prompts are not mine. Hence, it shouldn't be affiliated to their community apart from that I used half of their wordset. ^^

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1. Red

Red does not go well with silver hair, and Galadriel is always amusedly irritated when Celeborn wears red simply to rile her, but when after the battle of Dagorlad he returns anointed with stark streaks of red on him, he only finds himself caught in a trembling embrace.

2. Hope

He knows it is impossible – none, not even Frodo Baggins, can withstand the temptation at the cracks of Mount Doom – but he still fights, because of her, because even if there is nothing left to hope for, there is still her – and he'll fight for her to the very last breath.

3. Ice

When he kisses her for the first time, she can feel the unbearable heat of the unquenchable fire in her soothed by sweet, delicious ice.

4. Fire

When her lips meet his, he shudders and feels the fire of her soul melt the unbreakable ice within.

5. Midnight

At times, he wakes up in the middle of the night simply to listen to her steady breathing beside him that signifies she is truly resting, because when they are both awake, proud, proud Galadriel will never allow him that gratification.

6. Ring

He feels his heart soar when she smiles at him, radiant and _his_, with their wedding ring on her finger – but when she returns to him with a far more powerful, more beautiful one, it instantly falls and he can hardly force back the anguished cry that threatens to burst out.

7. Body

For all of her known rhetoric, Galadriel never speaks with words – she only speaks with her body, and he treasures that with all his heart, because her body can never lie.

8. Unknown

In an equation, Galadriel would be the unknown variable _x_, but Celeborn is the never-changing constant.

9. Laugh

They all love the rich, heady wont of Galadriel's laugh – but she alone knows the true allure of Celeborn's.

10. Run

Galadriel watches Celebrian run through the white niphredil laughing, and smiles – because all their effort has not gone to waste, despite the countless deaths – because in this darkness, she still sees the beautiful light of their child.

11. Box

When word reaches her that Celeborn has been seen going to the elven smiths with specific orders for a box, dimensions two inches throughout, there is none who can miss the subtle hint of delight in her eyes.

12. Dance

He watches her dance under the rain, and does not say a word when her feet, too weary to hold her up, slip.

13. Music

Music on Aman is an entirely different concept from the same thing in Middle Earth – the latter had much more to it.

14. Wings

Celeborn has never entertained much thought for flight, but when the Eagles come to him bearing a message from Galadriel, he has never wished more for wings ever.

15. Cover

It isn't true that Galadriel and Celeborn do not hide things from each other – they do, but they always end up blowing up the cover anyway.

16. Hurricane

Galadriel's anger is like fire, scorching and burning – but Celeborn's wrath is a hurricane that will never stop until it has destroyed everything in its way… and it can extinguish even fire.

17. Formal

The Lord and Lady of Lothlorien are known for being the only ones who can carry out a formal greeting with more intimacy than the most passionate of couples in the comforts of their chamber.

18. Drink

Celeborn wishes desperately for a stronger drink than the _miruvor_ that they have when he feels the abrupt severing of the bond between Galadriel and himself, but no matter how much he drinks he cannot fill the horrible gaping emptiness in his soul.

19. Farewells

He almost tells her that it is not only a farewell, that he will follow her in due time when he sees the heartbreak in her eyes, but does not.

20. Eclipse

When she collapses in his arms, too weak to hold up anymore, and his fingers cannot find a pulse on her neck, for that one brief moment it seems as though the world is undergoing an eclipse.

21. Wait

Galadriel is sometimes impatient, but never has she found the wait so long when Celeborn does not return from Dagorlad after the war.

22. Cold

Galadriel discovered her weakness for the feel of rainwater when she married Celeborn, but she only realizes how freezing cold it can be when he is not there with her.

23. Silk

Their romance can hardly be called _fluffy_ – to call either of them anything associated with fluff and feathers is almost blasphemy – but at times one might endeavour to call it silk.

24. Fever

Elves never fall sick – and hence when Galadriel's temperature rises above what is acceptable, Celeborn heads for the weaponry, not the infirmary.

25. Strength

When a furious Galadriel confronts Celeborn for taking up his sword again only a day after he has started recovering from a poison dart, he only smiles faintly and murmurs, "How am I to protect you if I have not the strength to hold a blade?"

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Please do take a minute to review? :D Thank you!

R.B.


	12. Aftermath I

**A/N:** Expanding on the prompts Red (1) and Wait (21), the first part. I will hopefully be able to upload the next part soon, but school is reopening and I shall be very busy. Thank you for all the lovely reviews! I hope that if any of the prompts did not make much sense, this (or other coming chapters) will clear it up for you. :D Enjoy!

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He still remembers too well his liege's words before the march. Even as the rational side of him, too weak for his own liking, insists that he could have done nothing, he cannot stop his mind from wandering off to more dangerous thoughts. _You could have stopped him. If you simply tried harder… _His jaw hardens, grey eyes steely as he stares ahead unseeingly. He doesn't look down – doesn't dare to, because it will only make it so much truer, and hence… so much worse. _Valar, he knew! He knew that he was riding to his end, and he insisted on it! The gall of – _

"Elrond."

The voice that sounds behind him is quiet but firm, the grip on his shoulder slightly shaky before the fingers clamp down, hard enough to cause pain, and Elrond turns back, stares into calm blue eyes. He doesn't speak, mouth tightening. The elf stares back for a few seconds before releasing his grip on Elrond's shoulder, and steps away. Elrond sighs inaudibly in relief, unsure if he would have been able to speak if he were questioned. Aeglos lies a little to the side, the spearhead broken off from the rest of it, darkly stained. He numbly stands, picking both parts of the weapon up, wiping the blood off it, and returns to his former position. _You could have been faster – you could have stopped it if you were only faster. _He fixes a cold gaze on the distance, vaguely aware of the apprehensive glances of the Men around him, veering off away from him, but can't bring himself to care. He still doesn't look down.

"Elrond."

He doesn't respond.

"Elrond." The voice is more insistent now, and the familiar golden hair of Glorfindel enters his sight. "Elrond, where is Isildur?"

_Isildur. The Ring. Orodruin._

"Elrond, are you well?"

He vaguely feels the corner of his lips pull down in a mocking smile. "He's at the foot of Orodruin." He finally looks down, and immediately averts his eyes. Slowly, with more care than he would an injured elf, he moves the body into his arms and rises. Without another word, he turns and walks towards the camp.

"Elrond, you have to return to Isildur." It is a different voice, more authoritative than Glorfindel's. Cirdan frowns slightly when Elrond simply continues walking as though he has not heard half a word, and moves forward to grasp his shoulder. "Elrond. Our work is not done yet – we cannot leave Isildur alone."

Celeborn steps forward. "I will take him." Grey eyes meet blue ones, sorrow deep but calm in the orbs. The determination in Elrond's wavers a little, but he doesn't move to relinquish the body. For a few moments, they simply stand and stare, silent. Then Celeborn inclines his head slightly in grave respect. "I will not fail you," he says, the first time he has ever attempted twice to persuade anyone. A curt nod, then he moves to take the weight.

His right arm immediately tenses as the weight of the armour added to the body strains on his wound, but he doesn't even flinch as he walks to the camp, Glorfindel following silently by his side.

It is a grim victory, if a victory it indeed is, especially when Elrond returns with Cirdan by his side, the latter resigned, if slightly concerned. Elrond merely takes a few moments to clean his hands before stalking off to the infirmary, not speaking half a word, expression inscrutable.

Isildur enters the tent, countenance a little changed – slightly brasher confidence than the self-contained young man they have seen before – and Cirdan takes a disapproving look at him before turning away. He notes their distance from him, but merely smiles. "Will Lord Elrond be taking the throne as High King?"

Celeborn lifts a brow. "He has said nothing of it yet." He looks at the chain around Isildur's neck and although none of them say anything of it, Isildur is suddenly reminded of how the former Lord of Eregion is more than capable of being politely blatant.

"I suspect he will not wish to take the place," Glorfindel says quietly. "The time of the Eldar is drawing to an end – many will leave these shores and – "

"- thus there will be no need for a High King for Elves anymore." Elrond stands at the entrance of the tent, eyes avoiding Isildur, face pale. "The High King Ereinion Gil-galad marks the end of the reign of High Kings in Middle-Earth."

"So be it," Isildur returns, a tight smile on his lips. "I had hoped that the Eldar would stay yet, but evidently our wishes do not coincide."

Elrond does not reply, and a slightly awkward silence falls among them. Celeborn glances briefly at Isildur before speaking. "How do the healing wards fare, Elrond?"

"It is too high a price to pay for this victory."

Isildur pauses for a moment, then bows to the various elf-lords. "I take my leave."

"And you?" Cirdan's eyes settle keenly on Elrond.

Elrond laughs, the sound too bitter to be pleasant, and shakes his head. "You wish me to leave as well?" Taking in the imperious lifted brow from the elf, his eyes fall shut wearily. "Does that need asking?"

"We all share your loss, Elrond, if not as keenly as you do. He will be laid to rest in Ithilien, with as proper a ceremony as there can be. We will mourn, together… and we will move on."

Elrond whirls back abruptly, eyes flashing in cold anger. "And he will be forgotten, lost to the world as but a faded memory – or less, a mere part of a fairytale. His deeds were not meant to be forgotten, Cirdan. Neither is he."

"The Firstborn are meant to be forgotten," Celeborn states calmly. Grey eyes fix on him darkly. "We will fade into the past, our use in this marred world gone. What is to come is an age of Men, an age of forgetfulness. We will walk in shadows, as shadows, and be no more than shadows. Those who move on, forget… And those who remember will be forgotten. There is no way to change this, Elrond. Gil-galad will be forgotten by Men. But we of the Firstborn, who cannot forget, will remember him. And he shall live on in our hearts."

Elrond's stare does not waver. "Is that enough?"

"When is it ever enough? As your brother's blood dwindles in his descendants' veins, they will be less inclined to understand us. Gil-galad died for those he loved – his people, his land… you. It is enough for him if we live on, and remember. And we will not forget."

* * *

The pain is only exacerbated in the night, and the cold stale air of Dagorlad does not help. He lies awake, forcing his hand down from trying to assuage the pain in his right shoulder. It is a tear from the shoulder blade to his elbow, deep enough to distract him from his usually clear thoughts, but not such that it needs immediate attention. The dull pain only subtracts from his concentration, and it is only towards the third hour of the new day when he hears a voice call silently in his head. It comes in wisps of thread, unconnected and confusing, but he finally concentrates enough to send back a single word: _Galadriel._

The reply is amused, but beneath it is warm concern. _Indeed. I have been calling you for much of the night to no avail, hervenn. Are you well?_

_As well as one can hope to be – _the line of conversation is suddenly cut off without warning, and he can only feel the last shreds of concentration dwindle to nothingness, the pain returning with new, vigorous intensity. He sighs, lifting a hand to clutch at the bandaged shoulder. A bout of pain shoots through his arm, numbing it with surprising ease. It burns, a strange contrast to the temperature of the air around him, but he hardly gives it any thought as his mind darkens and slows, sending him into an almost comatose state – which lasts for slightly more than a third of an hour, before the tent flap is suddenly flung open, the figure of Elrond Peredhil striding into the tent. Celeborn instantly rises, ignoring the sudden pain. "Master Elrond?"

"Your Lady alerted me to a conversation abruptly cut short," the elf returns shortly, lighting up the entire tent easily, then turns to stare sternly at Celeborn. "Where are you wounded?"

"On the shoulder." He watches as the healer removes the bandage swiftly, revealing a deep, ghastly wound that cuts right through to the bone. "Inflamed, I suppose," he murmurs, then continues on before Elrond can speak. "I presume Galadriel did not wake you up."

"She was insistent enough to have," Elrond answers. "What did this to you?" He eyes the wound with some distaste, then turns to open a small jar, watching Celeborn's expression closely as he applies the contents of the jar onto the wound. "This is not the only wound."

Celeborn lifts a brow, mouth tightening slightly with pain. "The only wound of true consequence. It was a scimitar, as you no doubt you can see from what is left of my shoulder and arm. You do not plan to mourn."

"Who ever _plans to_?" The sarcastic remark is followed by a lengthy silence, then Elrond sighs. "What do you mean?"

"Precisely that," Celeborn counters. "While others mourn his death, you will continue to berate yourself for what would have happened in any case. And perhaps, when others prepare to move on, you will bury it all beneath an inscrutable exterior. You took centuries to begin to mourn for Elros' death. When will you mourn Gil-galad's?"

The dark-haired elf does not reply. "I will tell Haldir of your wound."

"He does not need to know."

Elrond chuckles. "And according to you, did I need to know before I knew? Galadriel would have my head if anything happens to you on your journey to Lorinand."

"I doubt that. I am fairly certain someone would never allow it." Celeborn watches on amusedly as Elrond's eyes widen fractionally before taking on an exasperated glare. "Rest, Elrond. You need strength."

"Incidentally, you need none."

Celeborn laughs quietly. "Grief makes your tongue sharp."

"And do you not grieve as well?"

The smile disappears, blue eyes darkening slightly. "I grieve, but not as you do. I have strong Sindar blood in my veins, Elrond, and I have learned well not to entangle myself in the ensnaring webs of love and friendship – at least, I keep my distance such that when grief assails us, it is simple, not complex and intricate as it too often is. You lose those that you love, but you continue to, because the fire in you will not leave you alone, the passion threatens to break loose if it is not allowed an outlet. To me I see their passing as something that will happen, if not today – then another day. You, however, berate yourself for things that are not in your power."

Elrond smiles mirthlessly. "No more than you do, Celeborn, even if you keep those thoughts in check and hidden. But what of Lady Galadriel? You cannot deny that you have not distanced yourself from her, and it has hurt you."

"It is rather unlike you to probe so blatantly into others' affairs," Celeborn remarks, slightly amused.

"I apologize if I offend."

"You do not," the answer comes easily. "I merely point out that you view death with too much defiance, too much anger to understand it as I do. Gil-galad would not have chosen another way to die – "

"He screamed."

"I find it difficult to think otherwise," Celeborn counters calmly. "Sauron is not known to be merciful in his killings. But he knew that he was going to meet his end in this battle, Elrond. You could not have done anything to dissuade him from doing anything he has set his mind on."

"I could have tried."

"You did and failed."

"How encouraging."

"It wasn't meant to be." Celeborn sighs. "It is merely a fact. But know this, Elrond Earendillion – you could have done no more than you already have. Mourn not if you cannot, but at least have no wrongful guilt that is not due adding to your pain."

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My sincerest apologies that Galadriel is hardly present in this chapter, but she'll definitely be coming out in the next! :D And please, please do review! For those who are interested in seeing more of Fear, I'm currently working on it - so it's not the end yet!

R.B.


	13. Aftermath II

**A/N:** Again, apologies for making all of you wait so long, and greetings to all my lovely reviewers (and readers, who should really review ;D)! Thank you so much for staying with this work even though I take a sickeningly long time to update every single time. I really do appreciate each and every of you. If I've missed out replying your review, I'm extremely sorry - I promise I do try to reply every review! Anyway, this is slightly stiff - I've not been writing for pretty long, so when I edit this again I will most certainly attempt to make it better. The quality is really... questionable, and I'm really, really sorry. (Right, now I'm rambling.) In any case, enjoy!

* * *

Her mind vaguely registers that it is rather ridiculous that _Galadriel_ is worrying. Galadriel does not worry – and anxiety is acceptable on anyone... except Galadriel. But there has been no messenger from Celeborn, and neither has she received half a word from him since the night on the plains of Dagorlad. Her thumb runs over the mithril band on her finger, and for a moment she contemplates waking Elrond up again (presuming he actually sleeps, which she doubts), but it has already taken a rather unpleasant toll on her pride to have done almost that nearly twenty days ago. She turns swiftly and paces back to the entrance of the chambers. For all she knows, he might be already on the borders of Lorinand – and she immediately regrets the thought as a desire to attempt communication with Celeborn immediately arises.

Indeed it does not seem that the night will be restful, and she simply cannot stop worrying, even though she knows it is entirely unnecessary, and certainly not befitting _Galadriel_. The desire to attempt communication merely makes the anxiety worse.

The elf pauses hesitantly at the entrance of her chambers. "My Lady?"

"Has there been word?" Inwardly she glares at herself for allowing her voice to tremble, even if it is hardly noticeable.

He hesitates again, then shakes his head. "I fear that any messengers sent will be hindered by the hordes of _yrch_ that still dwell near our borders, my Lady. Lord Celeborn would not send any if he knows of the threat. We have sent scouts to scour the lands outside our borders, as far as we can. There is no sign of Lord Celeborn."

It takes more effort than usual to force her hand not to clench by her side, and even more to turn away slowly enough so as to not betray her anxiety (although it is hardly necessary, they all know of it already). "When should they have returned if they moved at a usual speed?"

"Eight days ago, my Lady. We must allow for time taken to accommodate the injured soldiers, however – " He stops abruptly then, and Galadriel immediately whirls around.

Her gaze is piercing. "And under such circumstances?"

He frowns slightly, worry in his eyes that is not betrayed by the rest of his features. "I believe that they should have returned two days ago, my Lady."

Panic clenches her heart in a vicious grip, and she barely keeps her expression calm. "And what might have caused this delay?"

The silence is suffocating. "I… I do not know, my Lady."

* * *

When Haldir finally finds Celeborn, it is outside his tent, and he immediately halts to speak. "The hordes are gathering strength, my lord. We must act swiftly if we wish to avoid fierce battle."

Celeborn calmly turns, lifting a brow. "The army is recuperating."

"The soldiers are well enough to survive a battle, my lord. I fear we may only lose more of our soldiers if we delay anymore."

"Indeed?" The single word is almost uncharacteristically cold, and for a moment awkward silence stills between them. Then he continues. "The happiness of victory is feeble in their hearts. Death hangs over them like a cloud, but there is not the fey power which would give them victory and survival; there is merely weariness. Not bloodlust as it must be on a battlefield. They must regain at least strength of their bodies if not of their hearts to survive."

"And yet if we delay further even that may not be enough."

"And right now what we have is certainly not enough."

"The Lady – "

The faintest trace of irritation is allowed to surface in the blue eyes, and immediately Haldir stops. "What bothers you?" The question is short, abrupt. "It is most certainly not Galadriel, and not the fact that the minions of Sauron are yet gathering strength, so what is it?"

Pause. "If my lord will forgive me the boldness, I fear that the War has affected your judgment. We cannot avoid the battle, my lord, we must go on – "

"You are forgetting your place, child." All trace of irritation is gone, replaced by steel, cold and hard. "I assure you that my wits have not fled me at the horror of Dagorlad. And I recall no event where I have failed our soldiers."

"There has yet to be a chance – "

"I am not waiting for one." It is not the bluntness but the tone that shocks, and it is the first unveiling of nerves on edge beneath a cool exterior when he swiftly turns away. "My apologies. I confess I am not entirely unaffected, indeed one cannot be. I do, however, know what I am doing."

"I have never doubted that, my lord," Haldir counters quietly. "The delay, however, might cost us more than we expect."

Celeborn shakes his head. "They require rest. We owe our brothers that much at least."

"You do not owe them anything, my lord."

Amusement flickers briefly in blue depths, and he turns, entering the tent. "Worry not; I am not in possession of a guilt complex."

* * *

He knows what he is doing. He knows, even, what will happen. There are reasons why he is delaying the army's return – he knows those reasons, and he knows they are perfectly valid, just as he knows Haldir's concerns are not entirely groundless, but he also knows himself, better than anyone knows him, and better than he knows anyone else. And he knows that those reasons, as valid and sound they are, have little to do with why he refuses to move on, even with the threat of the enemies. He is only slightly thankful for the ever-practical side of his nature (which is precisely the segment that comes up with the valid reasons) – for the most part, he is merely annoyed. It is absolutely reasonable and acceptable that he delays the homecoming only to meet a battle, when it is explained.

The soldiers need it. The victory is never full and joyous for the Eldar, because the Fall of Sauron also signifies the end of the time of the Elves. It signifies the time of Men, and while the Sindar are by nature not overly concerned with power, they are bound, by heart if not by soul, to Arda Sahta. There is only one fact that is required to entirely ruin the triumph: Isildur is not to be trusted. And hence they need something fierce and sharp – a battle on the lands they know as their own – to alleviate the blunt pain, to remind them that while Elves will be forgotten by Men, the land has a longer memory. It is a good enough reason even for Haldir – Haldir of practical mind and love for action – because he is Sindar, and he knows.

And yet it isn't the reason he insists on delaying. It is a valid reason, but in the contribution to the making of his decision, utterly irrelevant, which alarms him more than anything else.

The true reason is damnably ridiculous. Celeborn is seldom ridiculous – 'ridiculous' is a word one would think thrice before deciding whether to link with Celeborn, and after thinking thrice one should nevertheless decide not to. And yet he knows very well it is atrociously ridiculous.

The true reason is also bound to bring him another round of rows, and he is hesitant to think of it – quite ironic, as the fact is such that in any case, it is constantly on his mind.

The true reason, as ridiculous and troublesome as it is, is simply that he doesn't want to see Galadriel.

He misses her desperately, he aches for her all the time, and yet he does not want to see her. It is a coward's way out, he knows, he merely wants to ignore the emotions under the surface – but somehow, he cannot bring himself to care.

And that terrifies him much more than the terrors of the battlefield can.

* * *

They leave five days later, the army nearly whole and healthy, and when the previously dull eyes of the soldiers instantly light up fiercely at Celeborn's quiet command to attack, Haldir suddenly realizes what Celeborn means.

He fails, however, to see that in the chaos of the battlefield, a certain silver-haired lord does not parry as swiftly as he can, but instead uses his right arm far more savagely than he usually does. And as blade flashes in white and out red, crimson rapidly appears on the white robes.

* * *

He bursts into the hall. Galadriel turns. "What is it?"

"Lord Celeborn has returned, my Lady – they have attacked the largest horde of _yrch_ at our borders. We have sent elves in aid." As he bows and turns to take his leave, he sees the Lady's pale hand grip the banister, the sharp edge of its carvings piercing into the flesh, and a drop of red anoints the cold marble.

* * *

She watches, expression inscrutable as the soldiers come into the clearing, most disappearing as they are rushed into the healing wards. When at long last she sees the sight she has longed for, she finds the metallic tang on her tongue sweet. His robes are streaked with stark crimson.

He sees her, and immediately feels his heart constrict. He has never been more thankful for his battlefield façade when fear strikes his heart. Carefully keeping his gaze away from the radiantly alluring silver-gold, he dismounts, and allows the elf by his side to lead the steed away. When he turns speak to Haldir, he finds himself alone. Steeling himself, he steps forward. "Galadriel." The single word has scarcely passed his lips when he finds himself stumbling slightly backwards, caught in a trembling embrace, her hair soft and familiar under his fingers. He reflexively presses her harder against himself, ignoring the bolt of pain that almost paralyzes his entire arm – until she notices.

"What did you – " She is no longer in his arms, the space between them only adding to the unexplainable fear that comes crashing back.

"Do not – " he cuts himself off, and for once he finds himself unable to hold her gaze. "No questions, Galadriel, please." His tone is level, but she alone can detect the hint of pleading in his voice.

The moment of confusion melts into warm affection. "I merely ask what possessed you to go against your word and return to me in red," she murmurs gently, stepping closer only to have him hastily pull her close. Her confusion heightens to become alarm when she feels him turn to press a kiss into her hair, and barely hears the words whispered into it, a quiet plea for her not to stop. She only just stops herself from asking him what happened. "I don't suppose this is another attempt to rile me? You do look atrocious – " When he suddenly tenses, arm becoming stiff, Galadriel breaks away, eyes narrowing. "Celeborn." She can hardly restrain the frustration that bubbles up when his eyes dart up to meet hers, then immediately moves away. "What happened?"

His eyes harden. "I have a wound on my shoulder."

Grey eyes turn cold. "You never speak of your wounds, Celeborn."

A flash of dread passes over blue orbs, swiftly masked. "And yet I am now."

"Precisely. Celeborn, please. What is wrong?"

He hates lying. There are very few things that can drive Celeborn to hate, and dishonesty is one of them. "The wound is reopened."

She stills, grey eyes penetrating into sapphire orbs – then she frowns slightly. "What is it? Why are you… _afraid_?"

"It doesn't matter," he returns coolly, then tenses at the pain in his shoulder. Swiftly whirling round, he walks towards the direction of their chambers. The pain tugs dangerously on his strand of consciousness, and he involuntarily breathes a sigh of relief when he reaches the privacy of their chambers. He has only started to remove the bandage when Galadriel appears, wordlessly untying the stained fabric. He stares at her for a moment, then looks away, unable to keep himself from trembling – until he feels the strange sensation of a drop of liquid on his wrist. Startled, he draws away, and finds himself staring into her eyes – not dry as usual. Vaguely he hears a voice in his head say _Galadriel does not cry_, but he is unable to move at all.

Her ministrations are oddly silent, and he watches her every movement in a daze, until she finishes, until he suddenly feels her finger upon a recovering deep gash below his collarbone, slightly shaking. Then she sighs, rises. "Did you have a reason to return, Celeborn?"

He blinks. "What?" His monosyllable response is completely unlike himself, and he realizes it – too late. Cursing himself inwardly for allowing the mask to drop, he merely takes to stare darkly at her, a half-hearted attempt to erect another barrier.

But she does not know – she has not caught on, yet… and in confusion, anger is the most convenient response. "Can you not speak fluently, hervenn?"

The rejection, as unintentional as it is, cuts deep – and his eyes turn cold. "I apologize then, Lady, for unwittingly allowing my emotions to impair my speech. Indeed it must be fearfully embarrassing as the daughter of Finarfin to have your _husband_ break while others have withstood – I understand perfectly well."

Realization dawns, and she steps forward. "I – "

He refuses to look at her. "You have no need to explain – I know."

Her eyes flash dangerously. "You do not." She swallows. "Do you truly believe that I would scorn you as others might – even though they have absolutely no right to? Celeborn, I have seen wars – I remained in Lorinand for the sake of our daughter and our people – I know that wars will change and mar. You have changed – so have I. You, hervenn, have no right to withhold from me your emotions."

He stares at her. "Have I?"

Annoyance passes over her features. "Your tardiness was of my concern," she finally murmurs.

"I could not communicate with you – there were matters to tend to and I was on edge."

She smiles, a little sorrowful. "You simply did not wish to, Celeborn."

His head jerks up, an unusually abrupt movement. "I – " His jaw sets, the next few words nearly inaudible. "I needed you too much."

It is her turn. "You – " Her sentence is unexpectedly cut off as an arm reaches out to pull her close, his eyes falling shut as he breathes in her scent – sweet, rich, heady… and so very, very her. She stiffens in surprise. "Celeborn?"

The only answer is the tightening of his arm around her waist.

Amused relief rushes over her as her laughter fill the room. "And what, hervenn, do you suppose shall be penalty for breaking your promise?"

He releases her immediately, brow lifting in question.

"After all, I do recall making you promise never to wear red again."

* * *

Do review, won't you? :D THANK YOU!

R.B.


	14. Rain Incomplete

**A/N: **Firstly, I'm very sorry this isn't finished - but I did promise HaMalka HaLevana to update on 24th or 25th August. Unfortunately, it didn't quite work out. Secondly, this is a draft and incomplete - I will definitely try to edit and complete it as soon as possible, but hopefully you, my dear reader, will make do with this version for now. My sincere apologies!

Also, this is for HaMalka HaLevana, who has very kindly translated the first vignette of this series into Hebrew, posted on her blog, and always encouraged and motivated me to continue writing. Kudos to her and a thousand thanks!

* * *

Artanis has always been a child of the light. Her childhood was spent frolicking in the frothy waves and golden light characteristic of Aman, her beautiful golden hair radiant and bright. And yet she remembers most vividly the scent of rain on her last evening in Aman. Strangely reminiscent of the peace in the Blessed Realm, there are never thunderstorms – only light drizzles. The refreshing scent has always reminded her of Aman, and yet she has never been fond of the rain there, because the light, almost feeble pattering of raindrops have never appealed to her.

She encounters her first thunderstorm in the ship of the Teleri, nearly thrown off the side in the chaos as the skies turn dark and ominous. The wild untamed nature strikes a chord somewhere in her, and for a moment she almost hopes it will not end. Then lightning flashes, and her brother is shouting for her to take shelter.

In Beleriand, she forgets the storm, forgets the scent of rain – but in her nightmares she can still feel the coldness of ice on her lips as it cuts viciously into the flesh in a scuffle, only the slightest bit warmer than the stare of a dark-haired Telerin elf before he releases her roughly, recognizing her mother's features in her face. It is neither her beauty nor her wit that saves her then, the shocking sensation of bitter ice not in the least comparable with the blade at her throat that does not leave carefully enough to avoid a thin cut that as faded beyond even Elven sight.

Then she leaves Beleriand, and in Doriath she meets a prince of silver hair and blue, blue eyes – eyes that pierce and observe just as hers do, that flicker with amusement and yet doesn't warm the slightest bit when they announce themselves to be kin of Elu Thingol. He beckons for them to follow him, and melts into the trees, only the glint of his silver hair giving him away. When he passes her in the hallway after their audience with Thingol, they are close enough for her to catch the faintest scent of rain, and she stiffens.

He pauses for a moment, sensing her reaction, and she almost fears that he will ask, but he only bows his head slightly to her, and continues on in his path.

For the next few months he disappears, and when he returns there is new understanding in his gaze – new understanding that she somehow fears. And for all her eloquence, she cannot bring herself to speak one word to him. Thingol and Luthien welcome their presence, if curious about their experiences, but Melian, gentle and peaceful, sees even keener into others' thoughts than she does.

Once when Luthien has other matters to tend to and cannot be Artanis' company, she snags Celeborn and forces him to abandon his duties to accompany her.

Amused, and very slightly disconcerted, she smiles at him. "I cannot think of why she did that – if you have duties you have to attend to, attend to them, please."

He raises a brow, the faintest hint of a smile on his lips. "Indeed? I believe this is much more interesting than attempting to pick out threads of information of our people's welfare from Daeron's songs – I'd rather stay."

She shrugs elegantly. "I would not know – I am hardly good company today."

The amusement does not disappear, but the slightest hint of concert flashes across the sapphire depths. "Indeed – the Moriquendi cannot possibly be as satisfactory a company as your kin on Aman."

Her eyes swiftly raise to look at him.

He does not even bother to look back. "You _do_ miss them, you realize."

The tone is so patronizing that she rises from the chair and finds him much closer than she has expected. Suddenly the scent of rain is almost tangible, only this time it is also the scent of home, and she almost breaks then.

His voice is neither harsh nor soothing when he speaks again, not moving an inch from her, almost as though he knows how his proximity affects her. His finger touches the barely noticeable scar on her lips. "What happened?"

She almost says it then – almost lets loose the secret she has been keeping so painstakingly – but at the last moment rationality crashes back on her, and she takes a step back. "I bit too hard once."

He laughs. The sound is untamed and wild, and it reminds her of the thunderstorm she met when she left Valinor – only it isn't merry laughter – it's steel and ice and everything the Telerin elf who almost killed her was. And she suddenly wonders if she has made a mistake.

* * *

Please do review, and as usual any criticisms and/or suggestions are welcome, but please don't flame me if it's horribly done because I'm going to rewrite it again! ;D You're welcome to flame me after I do. THANK YOU!

R.B.


	15. Untitled

**A/N:** Now that I have finally met my deadline (well, sort of), you really must forgive me for leaving it untitled (in bad taste). It's been busy, and I've been writing in both languages, and attempting to fit in all sorts of things in between... and... You get the point. Hopefully this will last for a bit because I won't be updating for a rather long while after this. Rain is _still_ incomplete, unfortunately, but I'll do something about that soon. Also, I might just be working on the Hurricane prompt (from Chapter 11 Interlude) - so if there are any ideas, just review! I do always reply reviews! If I haven't replied your review, you _must_ tell me and I'll send a long reply in your way. :D Right. Enough of rambling. Here you go!

(If you want some really brief background information, just in case you're not familiar with CelebornxGaladriel fanfiction or the like, this is after Galadriel informs Elu Thingol of the Kinslaying. To those who have read most of the other CelebornxGaladriel fanfiction, I'm sure you'll be able to figure that out really easily. Right, I'm still rambling. Shall shut up now.)

* * *

The silence is neither deafening nor awkward when she finishes the recount, her face pale and countenance wearied. Elu's features are inscrutable, only the slightest crease on his brow showing heavy thought, and well-concealed anger. Melian looks at her, silent, sorrowful sympathy in her calm gaze. The other few elves in the hall seem shocked into speechlessness. Then her gaze shifts, and their eyes meet. There is the faintest, swiftest flicker of some emotion – betrayal? Anger? Or perhaps, just perhaps, sorrow? It is only for a second that he holds her gaze, however, and the next he is disinterestedly looking away, attention caught by something outside a window.

If it were any other window, Galadriel – at this point of time – would have believed that it was truly disinterest that led his attention away from her. She briefly wonders at Melian's intention by using this hall out of the numerous other and more frequently used ones – indeed the Maia does not seem at all taken aback by her account. Every other window is a doorway to an impressively beautiful part of Beleriand – every other one, except the one that Celeborn has conveniently directed his attention to. Or perhaps not conveniently – the position of the window with respect to his position requires him to crane his neck just the slightest bit to look into properly, just enough to give the illusion of interest. Wordlessly she curses the elf and his devious ability to deliver a performance convincingly, and yet give himself away with the slightest detail.

Elu Thingol's voice draws her attention back. "My heart is yet too ill to allow wise decisions – I have much need of counsel with my people. It is, indeed, dark news, and _old_ news – I must wonder, why has this tale not been told to me in the many times we have spoken before, kinsmen?"

Finrod's voice is quiet when he answers. "It was grief yet too near for us when we arrived, my Lord. I speak for the children of Finarfin when I say that we were shocked by that which had happened – it seemed almost a dream, a nightmare of sorts."

There is silence for a long while, until at last Elu sighs. "Your reasons are sound, if not adequate, and it is a comfort to know that you had no part in the Kinslaying. We bear no ill-will to the children of Finarfin, at least. Leave in peace, and when we have reconciled our hearts with this horror we will welcome you to our lands again."

They rise, bow, exit. A steely, blue-eyed gaze follows them, the furthest thing from captivation by anything outside the hall.

* * *

Finrod glances sidelong at Galadriel swiftly when a month has passed and still she has not said a word about returning to Doriath. "It is frankly quite unlike you to accept defeat so easily, sister. Simply because he does not come after you doesn't mean you cannot pursue that which you have."

She lifts an eyebrow imperiously, indifferently – a sign which shows beyond all doubt that she is indeed affected deeply. "I am not about to grovel, Finrod."

"No, but you are about to rend your own heart in two."

And Galadriel glares, and curses her brother's insight, for it has never been so accurate before.

* * *

"Why didn't you go after her?" Grey eyes bore accusatorily into blue, raven hair whipping forcefully as she whirls. "Why _don't_ you go after her? I simply cannot believe Ada has not said a word to you, to persuade you to find her. The blindest fool in all Arda can see beyond a single doubt that you love her!"

He shrugs. "Elu believes that I still harbour anger towards Galadriel for the Kinslaying."

A slightly exasperated frown creases his brow when Luthien narrows her eyes in a manner not unlike her mother. "And do you?" He merely looks at her, and does not say a single word. Her turn to be exasperated, she shakes her head swiftly. "You are a fool for allowing her to leave and tearing your life apart, Celeborn."

Celeborn has the grace to look slightly disturbed at her words, but still for a long while he remains silent. The silence continues, until at last he sighs. "I do not know," he murmurs quietly, "if effort on my part will be met with any welcome. I have… asked, before, just as we have all suspected – except that I have had the unpleasant experience of asking and being met with a poorly crafted lie. If she does not trust me enough to tell me the truth, I dread to think of her response should I be so foolhardy as to attempt… to speak." Blue irises turn slightly icy as he speaks again. "Besides, I think I have done enough running to her already, Luthien. At least this time, I have no guilt – I have not been participating in the Kinslaying –"

"And neither have she," Luthien returns softly. "So you are still angry with her? In addition to being… uncertain of her welcome toward your attentions?" Grey depths darken slightly in confusion.

His eyes fall shut, and almost unnoticeably his jaw tightens. There is, indeed, much reason for Luthien to be confused. He has confused _himself_ attempting to analyze the situation. After all, while not wishing to always run after Galadriel and being reluctant to speak to her for fear of scorn or snub do not seem, at least superficially, quite contradictory – in essence anger and fear do not go well together, at least not in this case, where anger and fear are not directed to the same matter. Somewhat. Sighing he lifts his hand, pressing it to his temple.

A soft, cool hand replaces his, and he opens his eyes to see Luthien bending over him, pressing a brief kiss to his brow. "Just... If she comes, don't push her away for supposedly noble intentions, please."

He laughs, and it is slightly amused, if bleak. "If she comes, I will not be able to do much other than to stare."

* * *

And indeed he does precious little more than stare when he finds her in his chambers, her slightly overdressed (or not, considering the snowstorm outside) and him more than slightly underdressed. Although, because it _is_ his private chambers (even if the description of said chambers being private is debatable), under-dressing should not be any part of his concern. As it is, however, he finds the (supposedly) natural course of action (to disappear further in) almost impossible.

To be fair, neither does she do much more than stare. Her pale cheeks colour slightly, but that is the only other thing that she does.

Finally, he forces himself to move, and immediately his feet step back more easily than he thought it would be, causing him to almost stumble, if only briefly. "I… did not know you would come… here."

She snaps out of the trance, quickly shifting her gaze slightly upwards, away from his unclothed torso. "No!" She similarly takes a step back, almost out of his chambers now. "I did not mean to intrude – Luthien told me that you could be found here…"

_Luthien._ He ignores the tempting urge to immediately think of a way to get her back for this, notices the almost _meek_ attitude in her words – and instantly feels his heart tighten. Galadriel can be gentle, Artanis can be coy – but she is never meek. "If you will excuse me, I shall join you in the library in a few moments." He gestures vaguely through the entrance across the corridor to the library just beyond.

* * *

"I – You did not come."

"I was unsure… if my presence would be desired."

He _is_ ill at ease, she decides, looking as he sits on the hard-backed chair, fingers still, unmoving. If they were in any other situation, he would have been doing things with his hand – things that on other people would undoubtedly mean _they_ were uncomfortable. Briefly she wonders what to say, and finally settles on the truth. "It was."

He looks up, cautious – almost courteous, not only outwardly, but even without the ever-present laughing, amused glint in his eyes that makes her think he is laughing at her. "I apologize. As I have said… I did not know."

"Yes." _Yes_? Apparently, she can only speak the obvious. "Are you angry?"

She can feel him study her countenance, carefully – quite unlike his usual manner. Celeborn usually would not let anyone know that he was studying them. "More because I asked, and you said little that was truthful, than because of the event itself."

Their conversations have scarcely been this straightforward – Celeborn is always truthful, if deliberately tactless at times, and Galadriel is… not always truthful. "We had felt… the horror of the event so keenly that we could not speak of it." He lifts a brow. "We… would not have wished to speak of it. I understand, if the shock is still too much – "

"I have slain kin before, Lady."

Silence. "You have not – "

"Orcs. The earliest ones – the first ones. Even those that we see now… are kin."

"They are creatures of Morgoth – "

"But foremost they are creations of Iluvatar. And the earliest ones… we had thought them Avari, those that had allied themselves with Morgoth, but were yet Elves." He pauses. "I will not forgive you – it is not mine to forgive. But in this age we encounter darkness, and when there is need we do things… that though are not justified, are necessary."

"Celeborn –"

"Galadriel. We are not given time… to dwell on these matters as you no doubt would be, on Aman. In Arda, we do what we must to survive, and salvage what sanity there is left of these massacres. _We_ have slain kin. And we yet live, and slay more – to prevent those that we love, and are not yet taken by the dark, from being slain. We must face the darkness to defeat it."

"And how, Lord, do we ascertain that we are not taken by darkness itself?"

He smiles. "Have not Beleriand given you any to love, and to protect yourself for? Not the trees, the life, mayhap even the Sea?"

For a long while Galadriel is silent. Then quietly – she begins laughing. "Indeed they have not as strong a hold on me as they have on you, Celeborn the Wise. But there is one, whom I would defy Morgoth himself, to love, and to ward the darkness off for." She turns, a white, slender hand on his pale cheek. "And it is enough."

* * *

**A/N:** Right. I thought it went really weird toward the end, but reviews? Please? :D


	16. Stay I

A/N: I know it's been _really_long since I last updated, but I assure you that I haven't forgotten about this! :D I've just had a month-long holiday filled with studying for tests, and the tests have just finished (well, kind of – I've one left…) so here's what I've done during my study breaks! The next update probably won't come soon, but I'll definitely try my best! Also, I'm really sorry to any reviewers who didn't get a reply! I can't check who I've replied because my outbox is now empty. I promise to reply if you review again though! In any case, here you go, so enjoy as much as you can! :P It's a bit short, but it's only the first part of a two-part… thing. Right. Here goes.

* * *

It has been years, and every time he catches her staring blankly towards the West, every time she pales almost imperceptibly someone so much as mentions the Undying Lands and he sees, she knows a little ground has been lost, her stand to stay and leave only with him grows a little more precarious. He knows she knows this, and so every time he sees her slightly whiter than usual, he merely stares a little, then look away. Neither of them has brought up the subject since then, but news have recently reached Lothlorien that Elrond is finally leaving for the thither shores.

Galadriel sends the messenger to his quarters without a word on his message, and only when she is certain she is alone does she dare to look down and study her hands. They are almost translucent now.

Centuries with Celeborn have taught her ears to be keen, and so this once – only this once, does she look up, startled, only when he is standing in front of her, so close he is almost touching, but not.

And she knows that it's over – this foolish and pointless silent battle is at long last over, and he has won.

"Do you leave with Elrond?" His voice is almost amusingly hesitant for asking such an obvious question.

She looks away, but her eyes are not hard as she answers. "I might become a Wraith if I do not," she says quietly, the slightest hint of subdued, rueful laughter in her voice.

She can feel tension from concern slip away at her words, but then tension – again – albeit from another source, seeps into his shoulders again. He stares at her much too closely for a couple that have been married for millennia. He still does not touch her.

So she reaches out to touch him, but he steps back so swiftly, so flinchingly that it could only have been a reflex action, and his eyes, blanked and blue, are quickly averted. Her hand stills in midair, a little surprised, and he stares for a moment longer before turning around with some sort of cold calm terror in his body, and leaves. He walks too fast for someone who has lived as long as he, or seen as much as he has, and within a few seconds he is out of the hall.

She could almost wonder why he, a warrior and a lord, would flee at his wife's touch, but does not. She only waits, and if his absence in their chambers that night surprises her at all, she does not say anything on it.

* * *

It is a role reversal, she reflects silently when he finally appears again after a few months, the terror gone and something more resigned in place of it. She was always the one to flee and he the one to wait in calmness. The strangeness of this arrangement only amuses her now, while years ago it might have irked her. She knows that he knows she is watching him, but he merely dismounts without a single glance in her direction, and enters the hall.

When he steps in, any hint of emotion previously in his body is gone, smothered under a façade of calm.

That façade cracks and shatters under a second when his eyes scan over her form and his jaw hardens. "What in the name of Valar did you do to yourself?"

It's concern, fear and a hapless mix of guilt, helplessness and resentful anger besides that loosens his temper, usually held so tightly in check. Guilt that he left, guilt that he will not leave with her. She does not answer, her features half-frozen in mute surprise, and not a little bemusement. Amidst the countless words that he has said to her throughout the few millennia they had been together, she has not once heard words spoken in that order from his lips. "Celeborn."

He looks oddly empty after the quiet outburst.

In a rare moment of vulnerability, his eyes lighten and he almost savagely turns away.

Then Galadriel looks at her hands – the best and most accurate way to gauge her health, and almost laughs at herself for being surprised Celeborn reacted in such a manner. The elves around her have been strangely silent on her wellness, and she has not thought of the subject at all, but indeed they are now one shade away from translucence. She does not need a mirror to know she quite possibly looks more like a Wraith, in her own words, than an elf.

His voice cuts into her reverie. "You are already more than half one," he murmurs, voice oddly bleak.

It is one of his many talents, the uncanny ability to continue a conversation from the exact point it left off, be it a moment or a century ago. She smiles, radiant and fragile. "I leave in the – "

Her sentence is left unfinished, his lips suddenly insistent on hers, one of his hands pressing her so hard against himself he could only have been wanting to pull her into him, the other threaded in her hair. And she doesn't resist, because this once, just this once, she wants to remember the feel of his body against hers, his lips on hers, his hands, his hair, _him_.

* * *

He stares ahead, eyes carefully devoid of all emotion, as she stands behind him. Then she lifts a hand, pale and too translucent, but blessedly without a ring, and touches a silver strand. It's a throwback of sorts to the days when the memories of the Kinslaying had faded a little, and there was no ring, no Nenya, no Celebrimbor. Their fights then had been straightforward, simple and temporary.

After the ring, he touches her. She remembers him absently running his hands through her golden tresses, a week after the episode of Nenya and Celebrimbor, and her turning to touch his cheek. He had recoiled immediately, even taking several steps away from her, staring at her hand as though she had burnt him with the ring and left a mark on him.

A moment later he had returned to her, without a word, and resumed braiding her hair. When Galadriel is Galadriel, and not Nerwen, or Artanis, or Celebrimbor's cousin, Celeborn sometimes braids her hair. She doesn't touch his, because he will not allow it with Nenya on her hand, and she will not remove it.

She still wears Nenya on occasion, not out of spite, although she knows perfectly well that he despises it, and sometimes her, when she wears it. It almost serves to make things seem more right, her land not a dying one and her people not fading. He knows, and doesn't say anything, and she still doesn't touch him with a ring on her finger.

As it is, however, she threads her fingers in his silver strands, and almost smiles when his body tenses in restraint, a flash of emotion flickering in the blue depths. "If I asked you to come with me, will you?" It is a pointless question, and she knows, but she asks, because she is Galadriel, and he is Celeborn.

He meets her eyes in the mirror. "If I asked you to destroy it, would you?"

She almost freezes, and looks down at her hand, naked and vulnerable. And she suddenly hates it. "You always loved her better." Nerwen is not suited for vulnerability, for weakness, for being the second. It makes her cruel.

He does not laugh, does not return her remark with one equally scathing. He looks almost curious. "Do you really think so?" Celeborn is the most dangerous when he is not biting, cool or sarcastic. When he is curious, the mocking glint in his sapphire orbs seems to laugh more contemptuously, as though he can't make out why one might think such a (ridiculously idiotic) thought.

"I do not wear Nenya," she says pointedly.

"And I am here with you." He looks almost bored now.

Suddenly angry, she tightens her grip on the strands of silver, and almost delights in the gasp that escapes his lips. Then she accidentally looks into the mirror, and her grip tightens further, but this time it is a reflex clench of her hand, not a gesture to hurt. "You desire to waste away in a faded land, in a marred world. They will forget you, Celeborn."

He follows her change of mood cautiously, but easily, and laughs quietly. "Adversity is the law of life, Galadriel."

He is only half-serious, but she releases her grasp and turns away slightly. "It wasn't, in Aman."

He raises a brow. "I was born here, Galadriel," he says, but there is no malice in his words. Then he stands and leaves. The half-done braid falls away.

* * *

They do not see each other again, for days. The next time they meet, it is ironically in their chambers, when Galadriel forgets to leave in the night, and Celeborn doesn't bother. She touches him with her ringed hand, a palm against his cheek. He looks almost ill or in pain, but does not, for once, pull away.

"Come with me." She looks so proud and so certain that he almost takes her into his arms, presses her hard against his chest, and says 'yes'.

"No."

The second time she says those three words, he tears her hand from his cheek and lifts it up almost savagely, knowing it hurts her, knowing it isn't fair, but having to say something, do something, _anything_.

"You have _it_."

In Celeborn's house, _it_ refers to Nenya, and never Sauron's ring. She pretends otherwise, because she doesn't know what else she can do. "It was destroyed."

He looks as though he might burst into laughter. "I thought you better than a liar, Galadriel."

"And I thought you better than a coward. Are you afraid of what you will see in Aman? Of what awaits you, or _who_ awaits you?"

His reply is quiet, and devoid of sarcasm. "Are you?"

She pales (such wonder that she can still be paler than she already is) and steps back. For a moment neither of them speak. Then she laughs, low and bleak. "You win, Celeborn. You win."

He doesn't answer for a moment, and she suddenly realizes that he has been following her every change of mood carefully, letting her take the lead while he would have simply twisted every situation to his advantage under any other circumstances. And now that she has admitted defeat, he looks far too blank for comfort.

"Celeborn…"

"I can't," his voice cuts in tightly. It sounds less like a refusal than a plea. Galadriel turns to look, questioning, at him. "I can't go with you."

She stills. "I can't stay," she returns simply.

He looks a little less ill and more pale. "I know."

"At least… at least promise me you will follow – in time." She has to force herself not to take a step towards him in her eagerness, and almost laughs at the damnable hesitancy, calculation – they are too old for that, too old, too tired, too hurt. _And too afraid of getting hurt. _If he doesn't follow – if…

"My Lady, you know I can't." It's that tone in his voice, that slightly bitter, slightly helpless tone – almost mocking, but not quite… as though she had asked him to promise her his definite return from a battle. She shudders inwardly at the thought, his blood-stained silver cloak still too fresh a memory in her mind. "There is no escape from death here, Lady." His words are remote, detached… and frighteningly true.

She stares at him gravely. She shouldn't ask, shouldn't endanger her last hope like that, and yet – "If you could, Lord, would you?"

"You shouldn't have asked that," he hisses harshly. "I can't promise you anything, Galadriel, I can't – because – "

But she is already stepping closer, over the boundaries they had mutually, if not verbally, agreed to – eyes flashing, challenging. "Because after all this, even though you _know_ all the beauty that we hold dear will disappear soon, even though you can already see it happening, even in Elessar's reign – _this_, this is still worth much more than me."

A flash of ice passes through blue eyes. "You sound pompous, Artanis." His voice is cold, cutting. "Hypocritical, and pompous." She almost recoils from the mocking in his voice. "You are returning, _princess_, to your home, and you _revile_ me for staying in mine."

"Iluvatar never meant for us to stay in Middle-Earth," she returns, voice hard. "Middle-Earth was never the home for the Eldar – our home lies in the West, and you need – " She stops abruptly.

His eyes are cold, almost colder than the ice she remembers on her way to this marred land – and yet beneath, beneath simmers a disappointment, an icy, self-contemptuous disappointment. "Indeed, princess? You have been taught well, haven't you? Do I _need_ to realize my sins and wrongs, to realize that I have been utterly and completely _wrong_ in believing this to be my home? Do I _need_ to repent and shed penitent tears over the fact that I ever thought this was home? Do I _need_, along with all the other wayward brothers that lost their lives here, to ask for forgiveness because we were _abandoned_ and _left here to our own devices_?"

"That… was not what I meant." But it is, it is – because she wants him to come with her, and she wants him to find home in Aman, not in this place that she has grown to find strangely familiar.

"I can't promise you anything, Galadriel." He turns, and leaves. She watches his disappearing figure with a detachment she can't feel.

* * *

Be a dear and review? :D Thank you for reading!

R.B.


	17. Stay II

**A/N:** I apologize for the tardy update! And short one too. (I notice that's basically what I do all the time in my notes, lol.) Hope you enjoy, and to those who've stayed around, my sincerest thanks, and I promise not to abandon this little whimsical work without at least leaving a note, so don't worry - I'm still around! Right. Here goes.

* * *

Quite unlike Celeborn, he doesn't disappear, not even for a single night, but returns and pretends that nothing has happened. The pretense is anything but deliberate, because it is an abominable failure, and if Celeborn does something deliberately it cannot be a failure. He is quiet and distracted, and he forgets to hide his new scars in their chambers. When he realizes he is not alone, not through hearing her footfalls but because she touches a barely healed slash on his back, he steps away and whirls around, unwittingly baring even more scars on his torso. The air is still and unmoving as her gaze lowers from his eyes to the multitude of new scars that blemish his chest. _Then_ he realizes that she is looking, and immediately snatches up his abandoned tunic, turning to disappear further into the room.

Her hand moves and grasps his wrist, cutting his retreat short. "So this is what you have been up to," she remarks coolly.

He stays still under her grip, features partially obscured by the shadows, but he is poised like a deer to flee.

"You usually do better at shielding yourself, hervenn."

"I wasn't trying to," he returns stiffly, still tense.

She doesn't relax her grip. "Stop struggling."

"I'm not - "

"We both know very well that you most certainly _are_."

He falls silent. They stay in that awkward position for a few more moments. "I cannot promise you anything."

"You cannot accept that."

He laughs, no mirth in the sound. "Either way I am incomplete."

"You cling to the temporal," she says quietly.

"Your persistence in this topic is wearying, Galadriel." He faces her, but still doesn't look at her. "There is no fundamental difference in our attitudes – merely our circumstances. We cling to our homes. You simply have the advantage of having one that is eternal."

"You can find a new home in Aman, eventually," she answers.

"Did you find one here?" And his eyes finally meet hers, blankly challenging. He doesn't wait for an answer, neither does he continue. He stares down at their joined hands, then lifts them up. "This bond will break."

She releases his wrist. "So we part ways?" He doesn't answer, but neither does he step away, so she returns to the topic he dropped. "This was never meant to be our home, Celeborn. The Valar meant for us to be in Aman."

"So much that they left us abandoned here," he says sharply, swiftly. "We are making the same choice, Galadriel. We choose our homes." It is _we_ that he says, but if _you_ is a little more emphasized the _I_, neither of them points it out.

"Orc-hunting?" She looks pointedly at the myriad of scars.

"A mere necessity," he returns shortly, and shrugs on the tunic. "I will be leaving again tonight," he says, and heads towards the door.

"You are running away."

He stops abruptly. "Yes." His answer is simple. "Yes, I am."

* * *

He returns in the night. In the moonlight dark stains stand out starkly. Galadriel starts awake, sits up – they stare. For a few moments they do little else, then the crimson liquid escapes from the tip of his finger and makes a dull splat on the floor. They both start, and then she is moving to get off the bed but he is quicker – his mouth descends desperately on hers, his arm bringing her upper body to meet his and for a moment he can feel her heartbeat quick but steady against his chest.

It all lasts for but several seconds, then she breaks away and he kneels at the side of the bed; they resume staring. Then her gaze drops to his clothes, stained red - and then everything is a flurry.

He stands, mute and frozen, at the bed as she fetches water and bandages.

Her voice is clear, not at all laden with sleep, even a little sharp. "Sit on the bed."

Wordlessly he acquiesces, sinking down where the fabric is still warm from her body. It is almost routine, he silent and compliant under her ministrations as she cleans away the scarlet stains, eyes hardening at the sight of elven blood. It is strangely reminiscent of the way he had returned after Dagorlad, sporting a shoulder-wound, because apart from this, that was the only time he was ill at ease under her hands. "Galadriel." His voice is surprisingly hoarse, and his eyes follow her movements as she slips under the covers to resume sleep, back towards him. Her eyes are still cold.

She doesn't respond.

"Galadriel," he says again, because for once he is utterly lost, without anchor, and her, her with her ring, with her homeland far away from here, her name – is the only thing that he can grasp.

The first time he said her name, offered her that epesse, she had shivered to hear the very sound of it, the way each syllable sounded precious on his tongue, the rise and fall of his voice on exotic inflections – the timbre of his voice. The way he had spoken it, strong – and fragile. Her name on his tongue is no strange sound to her now; she has heard it countless times over. But whereas he had offered her a name, as an anchor to this new land then, his tone allows no question as to his intentions now.

He _asks_, now, for her name.

"Celeborn – "

He moves so swiftly she almost believes he will reopen his wound, and then she can feel his hands beneath her chemise, skin on skin, hers on his back. Eloquence has never been a cause of worry for either of them – bitingly cool, sarcastic Celeborn and furious, cutting Galadriel are well known to each other – and to others. It is when one has no words that wails a warning siren to the other.

"You will not be alone." His muscles tense beneath her touch. "Elladan and Elrohir will stay, for a while at least. Haldir. Rumil."

There is a moment of silence. Then Celeborn half-laughs. "I assure you I am not so far gone I would appreciate hearing the names of other elves on my wife's lips in my marriage bed." He shifts away from covering her bodily, but turns such that he still touches her.

"Will you stay here?"

"Perhaps." His reply is short, noncommittal, and evidently given without much thought, deliberately.

"There is little time left, hervenn."

And then his hand is on her cheek, turning her to face him. "Galadriel." His voice is soft, so close to breaking. "Please."

The night falls silent.

* * *

They pass the last days in a manner not quite unlike newly-weds, stealing kisses and locked in close embrace, nearly inseparable. But because they are Celeborn and Galadriel, every little rendezvous is treated with a sliver of amusement, an underhanded mocking, a little more deliberate flair than is strictly necessary, or courteous.

"We've never been like this," she whispers softly into his ear, inhaling deeply of the air that hints of rain, so close her breath brushes his cheekbones. Private amusement quirks the corners of their lips, perfectly normal words spoken in intentionally sultry tones, but to an outsider love would have been reflected on their smiles.

He turns slightly to her, lips on her pulse, muffling his words slightly. "Not even when we were first wedded?"

It's a pointless question and a pointless conversation; they both know what exactly they were like when they had first exchanged vows. Too proud, they had limited touching to their private chambers. Now, too bored, they are only a step away from bringing those displays to the gardens.

She laughs, coquettishly. "Tomorrow," she says, and it's a promise, a warning, a farewell.

She lifts a hand to the back of his neck, and feels him arch into her, but Celeborn is too old to play at meaningless games for long. He shifts slightly away, and for the first time in days seek privacy. If any elves are watching (there are), they realize belatedly and bemusedly that space between their lord and lady makes for more affection than none does (belatedly, only because those that care to watch do not know them).

The rain falls when they reach the clearing underneath a canopy of silver and gold. If amidst the rain he sheds any tears, she alone tastes the salty bitterness.

* * *

Do please review! :D


	18. Stay III

**A/N: **I apologise _most_ profusely for this horrible thing, and the fact that I actually haven't updated for such a ridiculously wrong time. All the same, I hope this short installment won't be much of a disappointment. Happy New Year's Eve!

* * *

He turns his steed unexpectedly into a side-path on the journey, the waves beyond the forest barely audible. For once, she does not say a single word, but steers her mount away from the host, and follows.

The setting sun turns the sea into a mass of living gold – beautiful, but the elf-lord's eyes remain on the comparable beauty of his companion's tresses for a long while, until he tears it away with visible effort to stare into the seemingly endless mass of waters instead. Uncharacteristically, it is Galadriel who watches him with an intensity too strong to be unnoticed, every single movement – although, admittedly, there is little, if any. He remains still as stone, unbendable in the wind.

"It is beautiful, is it not?" Her voice, rich and deep (and hers, so singularly, uniquely, unavoidably _hers_), breaks through the silence.

He turns, and looks as though he has a witty retort, darkly amused and too painful to ignore _or_ be touched, right on the tip of his tongue. Then he relents, allowing that barrier to drop. "I do not think I will accompany you for the entire length of the journey," he says quietly.

She looks a little startled. "I had hoped, that once you were here, you might find it awakened."

"I fear that I am too selfish," he says. "Even now the bond protests."

_Non sequitur_. They hold two separate conversations, both highly aware of the bizarre exchange. "They say it is ingrained in every elf…"

"I fear if I accompanied you there, I would not be able to let you go." He states this mildly, the hint of a smile touching his lips.

"Do you still hear nothing, hervenn?"

He pauses. "I do not believe it will ever take me entirely," he says, but it sounds more like a statement out of the blue than a reply to her question. "I know, because I heard the sea first when I ventured here after the Second Age. It remains a slight tingle – less a fly to be endured than simply something to be ignored."

She sighs, too weary to hold an argument. Any ire that is raised does not last beyond seconds. Her hands are pale, nearly translucent. "Perhaps that simply is the way it is then, Celeborn. Your love for this earth comes even before the longing ingrained in all of us."

He is silent for a few moments. When he speaks, his voice is soft. "It is not love for my home that eclipsed that longing, Galadriel, and eclipses it still." He feels the weight of her stare on him. "If I ever hear a call from beyond these seas, it is you that I will hear."

"And now?" Her voice is at once a veiled challenge and a subtle invitation.

"And now I bid farewell to you, my Lady. If the winds are fair, and if Eru wills it, perhaps we will meet again."

"So your love holds no more power over you?" The question is sharp.

He sighs, fond amusement and faint exasperation colouring his baritone. "Galadriel, as Glorfindel tarries yet so do I – not for lack of love, but for duty's sake. My land still has need of me."

Her voice loses its edge. "And I do not? It appears I have lost the final battle, and hence the war – your love for this earth is far stronger than I could ever hope to compete against."

For the first time, his knuckles turn white as his grip strengthens on the mane of his mount. "Galadriel," his voice is barely level, "do you not understand? It was always simply a matter of need – you require healing that cannot be found in this land, far more than you require my presence. And this land has need of me. These reasons – simply these and nothing more, account for why you leave and why I stay. If one day you have again need of me that surpasses all else, I will follow. If otherwise, my love remains and always will."

"And I have your word that you will indeed sail when I am healed, Celeborn?"

"If there is a reason to sail, I will."

The subtle difference in his reply and her question is not missed, and her gaze turn cool, but she lets it go. "I must leave soon," she says, looking towards the harbour. "They cannot tarry for much longer."

"Then go," he counters, nudging his mount closer to hers, and drawing her near. "Safely." He hesitates but for a moment, then bends and press his lips to hers. Her response is fierce, and when they break away, his breath is a little fast. "If this is farewell for eternity, Galadriel – if in Aman you find another, be happy, and at peace." His eyes fall shut just a moment before she sees the pain in them. "And know that I love you still."

Her fingers, threaded in his silver hair, tighten a little. "To eternity," she murmurs against his lips, and it is a promise.

His eyes flash open, and appear to be memorizing her. After a moment, he leans back. "Do not promise me that which is uncertain," he returns, voice a little hoarse, and then he is turning his mount away.

"And you would deny me the trust you give yourself?" She pauses. "I will call, Celeborn, and you will hear."

He smiles, a little, no longer looking at her, but gazing into the horizon. "I believe you," he says, and if his voice betrays a hint of amusement, it does not undermine its honesty. "I will sail if there is a reason to."

She does not speak a single word after that. He does not turn to her. He is acutely aware when she leaves, and he follows the vessel that sets sail a little later with his gaze, until it fades beyond even elven-sight. His posture is stiff, strained – lined with tension in every muscle, and then – something breaks.

He falls. Glorfindel reaches the clearing with a dozen elves behind him from the host when he falls, but he is the only one who hears the choked cry that falls from his lips, a sound he knows would never escape him were it anyone else who had dealt the blow. He turns and signals to the rest, and understanding, they vanish back into the woods.

The silver-haired elf-lord has yet to move from his position on the ground. If Celeborn had been in good hands, he would have followed the others in retreat. Despite his experience with Elrond when Celebrian left, he has no wish to see another elf's weakness laid bare if the decision were left to him. But Celeborn is alone, and there is no one else – so he stays.

The horse, raised by Celeborn from a foal, shifts uneasily at its lord's distress, but Celeborn recovers swiftly. _Rather too swiftly_, Glorfindel notes, and studies the chips of blue that are tell-tale bright, not with tears, but with forced levity. A hand on its mane, he rises.

"Shall we return?"

"I have seen this before, you know." Glorfindel recognises the flash of ire at his own vulnerability in Celeborn's eyes, before it is chased away by bone-deep weariness, but ignores it. "For all of Elrond's famed inscrutability however, you hide better than he."

Celeborn smiles briefly, and the resignation in that gesture unnerves Glorfindel more than any impressive display of temper would. "I have had more cause to hide from better contenders, than did my son-in-law."

"You should have returned with Galadriel," Glorfindel says next, careful not to overdo his baiting. "I fear your strength wanes even on these shores."

He counts the mild annoyance, swift to disappear from blue eyes, a small victory. Then Celeborn laughs, fingers tightening on the mane of his steed, and mounts. "You will have to do better than that, my Lord, if you wish to stir my temper," he says, flippant but mirthless, and rides away.

The Vanya watches, a golden brow arched, and accepts the challenge.

* * *

**A/N: **Thank you for all of you dear reviewers/followers/favouriters, and any of you who are reading. Wishing all of you a great year ahead. (Also... shamelessly asking for reviews here!)


	19. Weakness (Edited)

**A/N: **I had an idea, and here's the (rather pathetic) result of it. There's more to come, as is apparent, but I figured I might as well update whatever I've done so far now, before real life starts catching up. I apologise for any off-colour handling of the characters. All right, here goes.

**A/N [2]: **I updated this chapter, but the update only totaled five hundred-ish words, so I decided to upload the entire thing in one chapter. There may be more to come, but we shall see.

* * *

If an observer were attentive and perceptive enough, he would have noticed that they do not touch. Others turn to their closest and seek comfort – Elladan and Elrohir, Glorfindel and Erestor – and even Elrond is found sometimes holding his wife, seeking, and attempting to give comfort.

Celeborn and Galadriel stand apart in their shared grief. It is not an uncommon occurrence with Galadriel, at least. In millennia of living in close quarters, Celeborn has learned the tells when his Lady doesn't wish to be touched. Like a ticking explosive, the first hint of pity unleashes her fury like nothing can, when she is vulnerable. And when she is vulnerable, any touch is perceived as a show of pity. Celeborn has learned the ways to love when she's vulnerable – the little ways – silent, distant companionship, arranging councils and reports such that she has cause to distract herself, but isn't distracted, and hence not coddled.

And so Galadriel has learned when Celeborn is simply holding back his need for her, for her sake. And when he is not.

And he is not.

Because this time, the silent, distant companionship is nowhere to be found. Councils and reports come, and distract her, and when he civilly hands her a goblet she requested, his fingers are deliberately, and hence successfully, out of reach from hers.

Because this time, he succeeds in thwarting her every attempt to come into contact with him, when she no longer feels the urge to spit fire at every touch – or look, and that is nothing if not deliberate. His mind is withdrawn from hers, carefully set up with decoys and shields and smokes and mirrors – with a raging storm protected in the heart of it, that she can feel but not see.

So now that pity no longer irks her, his deliberate distance does.

"Hervenn." The anger, the reproach, the reminder – all in one word of scathing tones. And then she registers his posture, held upright under a multitude of self-induced guilt, and instantly anger vanishes. "You are not to blame, Celeborn."

He turns, weary but defenses up and ready. "Certainly," he returns easily, the way he agrees to offers for a goblet of wine.

"What could we have done?" It is not a rhetorical question, or a challenge.

"Nothing," he replies evenly, deceptively mild – every stress in one single word calculated to project nothing at all.

"More warriors – "

" – to die in her defense," he cuts in. "There was nothing we could have done," he reiterates quietly, and then she realizes it's not guilt for not having done more, but for his incapability to.

"She will not yet fade," she offers, painfully aware how little that means. "Elrond will not allow that to happen."

"So she will sail," he counters, voice tight. She suddenly finds herself the sole object of a penetrating, pleading gaze. "Galadriel," he starts, and stops. "Galadriel," again, "I have been thinking, not wallowing. There is nothing you can say that will undo what has happened."

The conversation pauses. It is unlike her to tread so hesitantly, but it is equally unlike Celeborn to hide so blatantly, and for once she is lost. "I have nothing to offer," she finally says, a soft confession.

He finally turns, away from the precipice, and stares at her. Surprise flashes briefly in twin lakes of calm blue, and then they return to stillness. A wry, mocking smile pulls one corner of his lips upwards, barely enough to register as movement at all – and then he nods. And turns back, away from her.

For a moment both believe the conversation to be over. Then – "You hide from me."

He tenses. She sees the straightening of his shoulders, the readying to set up more and physical barriers. "Galadriel – "

"I merely wish to know why."

His eyes narrow, and then he relaxes minutely – just enough for a breath to pass through his lips in the subdued shadow of a laugh. "Do you," he says, but his tone is tired if obviously sarcastic, and there is no venom in it.

She gives up this form of communication, and presses in on his mind – a gentle pressure, coaxing more than intruding.

He blinks, and she clearly feels his mind flinch at the sudden contact – and then he steps back, withdrawing – in his mind, and physically.

_What is it you avoid, hervenn? _A step closer.

_Galadriel… _A step back.

There is barely half a second of impatience in her eyes to warn him before she presses in again, this time an intrusion. He resists, a half-hearted attempt that does not even give her pause, and then acquiesces her presence. _Celeborn – _she barely begins when it hits her, and her incredulity is so great it cuts her off from him.

He doesn't move.

"You _fear_ my reaction to your grief? For our daughter?"

The ever-constant presence of his mind, not far from hers, is suddenly gone. His eyes are cold – more from the lack of emotion than any dangerous one.

"Celeborn, what – "

"My Lady, do _not_."

She stops short, draws back.

"You have more than once commented on our differences," he murmurs, more to himself than to her. Then he looks up, a faint smile curling his lips. "Your brothers warned me – warned me that you didn't take kindly to weaknesses. Not in someone meant to be your equal."

And then she finally understands, but understanding doesn't drive away the incredulity. "You think you are weak." She doesn't bother disguising the completely disbelieving tone, the tone that screams _this is utterly ludicrous_.

He seems to suddenly realise that has spoken too much, and merely shrugs in response.

She barely stops herself from succumbing to anger. "Do you think I do not grieve as well, husband?" She steps forward, grey eyes hard and soft at the same time. "And do you think me weak for loving, and for grieving because I love?"

He still doesn't answer.

"So tell me, Celeborn – " a step forward again, " – how many times have you stemmed your own sorrow even as it rose, contained your own need for solace, checked it all within the deepest recesses of your mind, simply so I could indulge in my own grief?" She stands, a foot away. "Every time – every time, did you think me weak?" And then she raises a hand, presses it against his cheek. He freezes, then nearly tilts his head instinctively into her touch, but holds himself still, jaw tightening. "You are not weak, Celeborn. Do not presume for one moment that I would allow anyone, even you, to slight yourself thus."

For a few moments neither of them move.

"Celeborn…"

He turns back towards the precipice, still silent, but as her hand falls away from his cheek, his fingers find hers and entangle themselves within.

* * *

It doesn't mean Galadriel has won. Celeborn bears the countenance of willow, which is only noticeable when he allows it, and simply because he yields to Galadriel's ministrations doesn't mean he breaks under the gentleness. In this aspect, Galadriel willingly concedes defeat.

He does not weep. Does not shed a single tear, even when Celebrian regains enough strength to walk in the gardens when she wishes to. Does not break, even when Elrond does, grief breaking his mask of inscrutability, breaking him.

No, Celeborn does not break, but what he does is far more subtle, and far more worrying to Galadriel.

He fades, in the human sense, not the Elven sense – and Galadriel is the only one who sees this development, sees the slow, burning grief hidden and _cradled_ like self-inflicted punishment, even when days of brittleness barely under the surface have passed. Even as Elrond braces himself to let Celebrian go, Celeborn is silent, and does not break.

The barriers between them now are softer but no less unforgiving. Clever evasion and hard, cold forbiddance Galadriel is more than an equal match, but when the Sindarin blood in her husband makes itself known, strength of willow rather than oak, that is the reason she yielded to him and formed that bond.

Still, willow is difficult, not impossible, to break. And as much as the task is distasteful to Galadriel, her husband leaves her little choice.

She begins speaking of Celebrian, mentioning her name while none have dared in his presence, and painfully ignores the brief flash of surprised hurt that flares up in their bond, helpless reproach in and of itself. The barriers begin building up again, this time thicker and harder but more desperate, more careless – every time she deals out a measure of hurt.

He realises what she is doing on the third day, to his credit, but it is too late, and they both know it.

When he breaks, it is quiet, and he laughs a little. "You win, Galadriel," he says, but it is neither bitter nor hard, though his grip is tight in her tresses and she is pulled flush against him as he trembles and falls apart.

In the aftermath, Galadriel waits for him to speak.

"I am quite impressed, my Lady," is what he first says, but the tone is hesitant, and he isn't looking at her.

She is suddenly weary, the feeling deep in her bones, and she moves a little away. "I do not know how to convince you, Celeborn," she says, and closes her eyes.

"What?" He finally ventures, but the confusion rings false even to himself. "I am quite certain Sindar women don't appreciate this either," he tries again in a shaky laugh, but the joke is weak.

And it probably really is unfair, because even Celeborn is unsure and weak recovering from this. "I am not a Sinda, Celeborn."

There is a brief pause, but at this his lips finally quirk in amusement. "I think I am quite aware, Galadriel."

There is something young and pleading in his gaze, and Galadriel is tempted to let this pass. She moves back towards him, and leans back, his arm turning inwards to support her weight. But when moments have passed, and she can feel Celeborn's heartbeat in a restful lull, she says quietly, "I have never thought you weak, hervenn."

She waits, and the reply comes in the form of a tightening embrace.

* * *

Thank you for reading! Please do be darlings and review! Also, just a shoutout to the two anons/guests to whom I can't reply - thank you so much for taking the time to review. Cheers!

(**ETA**: To LuHeaven, I'm working on a new chapter that is hopefully less angst, so hopefully the next update will be that!)

R.B.


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